MASTER(PIECE)
by April Bannister
scoop out my face with a silver-pronged
fork and make me
gaunt in the cheeks
tell you i love you but never
in a letter i don’t know
your number and don’t occupy a return
address
and where is the distinction
the difference you are
all over me
and i am prettiest when you
cover me in red
watch you laughing without sound
watch you select the butcher
knife and suggest the saw instead--
not as clean, you say, but
deeper, i say, and you should know
i like razor blades over pencil sharpeners
scissors over thumbtacks
compasses only if i’m desperate
and never glass, not anymore. and yes,
yes, for my skull a saw will be best.
maybe the knife another time,
honey, through a different heap of bone.
fork and make me
gaunt in the cheeks
tell you i love you but never
in a letter i don’t know
your number and don’t occupy a return
address
and where is the distinction
the difference you are
all over me
and i am prettiest when you
cover me in red
watch you laughing without sound
watch you select the butcher
knife and suggest the saw instead--
not as clean, you say, but
deeper, i say, and you should know
i like razor blades over pencil sharpeners
scissors over thumbtacks
compasses only if i’m desperate
and never glass, not anymore. and yes,
yes, for my skull a saw will be best.
maybe the knife another time,
honey, through a different heap of bone.
April Bannister is an undergraduate student studying English and Creative Writing at the University of Iowa. She enjoys writing across all genres, especially within a mental health focus. Among others, her work has appeared in UReCA: The NCHC Journal of Undergraduate Research and Creative Activity, The Dog Door Cultural, and The Foundationalist.