I am learning the language of objects. So, the kitchen knife
Scintillating before me: I must undo a thousand
Years of knowing what it can and must do,
And see it as steel, as inertia. I must unlearn
It purposes and desires, its thirsts, its cunning gait,
King Duncan’s end and many before him;
And instead embrace its precise and harmless form.
For the thing is without harm: only in redefinition,
Holding it and giving it purpose, is it made
As I might too, in my own way, be cut-throat
And thirsty for the salty taste of red along my fine
Clean sides, merciless; sometimes, when held, I too
Become an instrument of atrocity. Can I
Distract myself from these, the most delicious
Incidents, and render myself natural?