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The First Cut
Gripping the knife,
She stands before a room of judgmental eyes waiting for her to fail.
The first cut is crucial, her father would say.
But dad isn’t here.
This is her responsibility now.
It’s not like she’ll cut the main artery and kill this poor bastard.
This turkey is already dead.
Instead of commanding an operating room full of impressionable interns,
She’s sweating in her dining room, full of condescending cousins.
She drives the blade into the tanned, seasoned skin.
It slides through like butter.
At least she has one thing to be thankful for.
