Cutter

By Gina Stratos

When my youngest daughter
cut her arms into fleshy ribbons,
I watched her damp teeth move,
her mouth a cave echoing
   every motherly failure
      every single tenderness
         left on the table to rot

In her bedroom, I rummage
through drawers, too late, they say
remove every knife, rusted razor,
colorful sewing pins, their bright
heads a kind of circus laughter,
a child-like lie

I contemplate pulling every tack
from her walls decorated with blue
art, bulging eyes, but still, the smell
of her sandalwood hair lingers
as a promise unfulfilled

She would laugh if I called it a prayer

That’s my fault, too

Can she hurt herself with cardboard?
      Can she open a vein with tweezers?
         Where do I store my kitchen knives?

Oh, my heart, what have we done?