Geula Geurts

One man bought me a set of knives. Pink & yellow blades. To make me a good woman. Kitchen-sharp. He liked apple pie, the butter of my thigh. I sliced my webbed toes instead. Left the waddle, learned to run. Another man bought me a stone for sharpening the blades. This fable is real as stainless steel. He liked his tomatoes square and crisp. Only a woodcutter wields an ax of rust, he said. Blunt woman lost in the forest. There is always a cottage nearby: a huntsman, a dagger, my liver intact. I plunge my tongue into the next boar, the next pheasant—each meal my last.