i slice the ribbed pork; blood seeps onto

plastic cutting board. my mum says, blunt

knives are safe. i am not a doctor, but surely
clean amputation is safer than dull chop,

pulling and tugging until the decayed

spine snaps off. in any case, we’ve never 
done things the easy way. it will not taste

good if we do not bleed into the mix. the

same secret recipe everywhere – prodigal
child returns. i keep separating flesh

from marrow, but what else can i fix-

ate on if not the uncut umbilical cord. 
the day i turned legal, i laid under a man.

watched as he jabbed needles into my

back. the ink says, i will never be you. still
i grow into your skin, the same dis-

jointed smile. still i hoard grievances the way

you hoard old toys. still i have the same night
mares – my fingers, locked on soft flesh

until skin spills open, a mess of seeds

and clots. shhh, don’t let the neighbours 
stare. i look down and see wrinkled

hands, spider veins, shaky enough

to fear sharp edges. i do not want
a daughter. i know the iron i used

to defy you will be forged

strong enough to subdue her too.