My mother had a little knife,
its handle cream of hue,
blade sharpened to within an inch of life,
edge hollowed, rounded, whet
on the step step step step step,
the razor sound of resonating steel
made in Sheffield, worn almost away
but for this memory.
It was an instrument of dissection,
the bone knife, handled to perfection,
cut with precision
its path into family tradition,
one tomato sandwich at a time.
Entire lunches, teatimes, picnics’ worth,
so thin and salty they bled
pink juices through the bread
as if dead. Any leftovers were prized,
fought over, sucked dry,
a gourmet treat
stronger than any meat,
umami rich, umami sweet,
made by our own sweet mammy,
sharp, bright and real,
tempered as steel.
