Home		Marilyn Annucci Wrecked World
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		Your dishpan is quiet as a pond, all the white ambition shrunk to mild foam. You have been away too long, cups and plates tilt like glaciers. Man: the toppler of worlds. You wedge your hand between what shifts and slides, methodically descend, layer by cool layer, until your fingers crawl along the smooth bottom, amphibian. This is where the knives lie, mute battleships gone down on their sides. How wonderful to find them unaware and then to pull one, nose up, and up until it hangs in the stunned air— wrecker in a wrecked world. Were you wrong to dredge it up?— Is there not meat to cut, and pie? Wrong to pour warm water down the long length of its side, to place it in the company of spoons, who seem so soft, yet do not lie; when you hold the knife before one oblong eye— concave or convex, rightside up or upside down— you see how the blade stretches from your head to heart, so much bigger than you thought.
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