The thin cool blade slices
cleanly through orange flesh,
the peel growing longer with
each push of her fingers on the
smooth steel handle. Her eyes
focus intently on the pliant innards
revealed by the knife in her hand.

In the background a voice
drones, its pitch rising with emotion,
like the whine of a buzz saw ripping
through life. The words are the same,
always the same. She no longer hopes
for a day different
than the other days in her life.

The harder she stares at the knife
in her hands, peeling the skin from
the inert vegetable, the further away
she pushes the voice.

3 thoughts on “Practice

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