Skinning a Cat
Honestly, I can’t think of more than one way to skin a cat.
The surgeon lets the idea steep a few minutes
and I ponder this feline plight of an idiom,
imagine the protest from the talking cats of Murakami.
What a cruel phrase to realize, but one that lost its garb
at two in the morning in front of this iodine yellow belly
seconds from engaging a scalpel, the surgeon pleasantly
asking where do you think the incision should be?
Out of all the cuts of sushi or carvings of turkey
I’ve had, I’ve never contemplated the heft
of that first slice, the resistance of the blade,
the history that drives us to set steel to skin.
Honestly, I can’t think of more than one way to skin a cat.
The surgeon lets the idea steep a few minutes
and I ponder this feline plight of an idiom,
imagine the protest from the talking cats of Murakami.
What a cruel phrase to realize, but one that lost its garb
at two in the morning in front of this iodine yellow belly
seconds from engaging a scalpel, the surgeon pleasantly
asking where do you think the incision should be?
Out of all the cuts of sushi or carvings of turkey
I’ve had, I’ve never contemplated the heft
of that first slice, the resistance of the blade,
the history that drives us to set steel to skin.
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