genesisSpring2016.pdf


18     genesis spring 2016

Candied syrup bought from the Amish store 
and my sister’s name spill onto the warped 
linoleum: it’s the holidays in the holler. Dad 
says her blood must be sweeter than this sugary 

ham baste, as sinful as she is. Nothing more 
than an abomination he banished from his folding 
card table. He holds his tin wool under the drip 
of  the sink, sharpens the butcher knife. Butcher 

know. They’re like any knife pulled from the drawer 
of  spare Mason jar lids and stained hot pads. Not scary, 

for kids, not for making PB&J’s or Grandma’s 
afternoon crackers and cheese. They’re meant 

shaping cubed steaks and pork chops. So be wary, 

kids, he says to the little cousins as he works a knife 
they can’t tell from a butter spreader. This one will 
get you good, not like the other knives, he says. 

God, Aunt Sharon sighs to me. I think about telling 

weeds and Canadian thistle, high and tripping acid. 

Best of  Poetry

A Butcher and His Family’s First Christmas
After Losing a Loved One

Sarah Turmail



genesis spring 2016     19     

to my brother. I close my eyes and think of  her. 
But mostly, I only think of  dad’s eloquent defense 

knives in their home amongst the Mason jar lids
 
and stained hot pads. Aunt Jane just looks at me 
and shakes her head. I look to the window, to the bright 

Do you see those stars, I say to Aunt Jane. Stars? 

She goes to the window. Nope, can’t see, not 

one day you will be brave enough to carry the sky
 
on your head. To burn like the stars that ignore 
the sun, and shine anyway. I see her twinkle at me
from her place above the setting sun. I thought 
you weren’t coming, I say to her. She twinkles.