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published
in Tears in the Fence;
in
anthology, My Mother
Threw Knives, 2006,
Second
Light Publications, ISBN 0-9546934-1-8;
in
collection, a kind of
slow motion, 2007,
tall-lighthouse,
ISBN 978-1-904551-30-0
Home Truths
At forty, my mother
threw knives,
whet-stoned
knives, sharpened Sheffield steel
which
ached to do their work.
They
glinted in her hand above the chopping board
and
sliced through vegetables and meat —
they
reeked of tripe and onions.
My
mother could hurl a knife with such precision
that
the rest of us could only stand and gasp, jaws open,
as
she pinned us to the sunflower kitchen wall.
There
was never any doubt that she was good.
My
mother honed her skill with hormones
and
practised every Sunday morning,
while
she cooked the roast and home-made apple pie.
At
forty, my mother threw knives — she
never missed.
She
would pin an unsuspecting target to the larder door,
by
the collar or the sleeve, with one deft flick
and
I, at eleven, was filled with awe
by
her ambidextrous hands. I encouraged her in accuracy
and
was chosen as her assistant. I learnt to stay still.
My
mother threw knives. It was a harmless circus skill,
but
the words, which accompanied them, killed.
Janice Fixter
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