my father hands me the knife, says look/
into the eyes before you take them
![](https://i0.wp.com/cutleafjournal.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/06/peking-opera-151.jpeg?resize=363%2C188&ssl=1)
my father hands me the knife, says look/
into the eyes before you take them
There isn’t a mortician alive/
who can force us to that table again—
Everything seems sacred at this time,/
Everything has a leg. Everything’s walking.