The knife in my hand does all the talking. Flesh separates clean. The floor sick with feathers. But for the slight popping and snapping.
Light is a deaf, cruel instrument.
Through the kitchen window, I can see a man singing in the distance. His arms rise and fall beneath a row of white birch trees. Blood on my eyelids and hands. Blood runs dark and quick to the drain. The man whirls as he walks under the trees.