December 14, 2023The Second Pass
The first pass along the whetting stone
creates an edge too fine to last;
the second, more blunting pass
tempers the edge into usefulness.
Together we used to hone blades
so unutterably precise
tomatoes would slice themselves
open to expose their reddest flesh.
Later, in the restaurant’s kitchen,
when the head chef needed a knife,
screaming in French, he came to her
station and used one of hers.
She told me this with pride one night,
then put her hand on my chest
and cried stainless steel tears
I could not understand.
When she jumped from the window
and they searched the apartment,
they found in the bathroom a knife,
its edge unbloodied, as sharp as a razor.
And I keep thinking of the second pass,
how it sharpens as it dulls the working edge,
how the one has a real and necessary need
of the other to do what it does.
from The Whetting Stone