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366 A Face to Meet the Faces Necessary Knives Tara Betts —for F.V. We turn our silver serrated grins toward light, hungry enough to glint, knowing we do not need to be fed. We should rest in sheaths or glass cases like sharp butterflies, willing to cut air in flight but pinned in place, quiet and safe. Instead, we greet dark caverns of deep pockets. We feel the rush of a grip snatching us out, ticking our spines into a straight long snick, startling eyes wide. The warm blanket of meat, raw and salty, can hold a kiss or surround us. We cannot forget the taste, no matter how much we’ve been cleaned, despite polish. A vigilant infantry ready to separate and save, hoping to smile and reflect moon glow when we leer into the dark. We only flick open if we have to flutter, not because we want to, we must. ...

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