[ I drop the steak knife ]

I drop the kitchen knife
on the wet tiled floor
blood streaking red down
my spine into the crack
of my butt, and stand, back
to the shower's spray
holding my hands out
watching them tremble
like soundless tambourines
like the one I shook
and pounded against
my thigh the summer
of my junior year, when
my mother lived in
Deer Run apartments
her windows looking out
at the junk yard
and the field of stray cats.
We were embarrassed,
my sisters and I, when
dad dropped us off for
weekend visitation, but mom
adopted us a Siamese cat
from the junk yard
and named her Lola
whose eyes were crossed
and she seemed confused
so we called her Tard.
That summer, I remember
skipping up the block
with the tambourine
howling a love song
barefoot on the sidewalk
hot with sunlight
which scolded my feet
making me skip faster
as my friend, Nick, picked
a guitar until I busted
the tambourine with my palm.
Remembering it was a gift
I had bought for my other friend,
Ruth, for her birthday.
She was also dancing, next
to me, so I felt like a jerk
and promised to replace it,
which I never did.
But looking back, it was funny,
and I smile behind the shower
curtain, back rinsed and hands
steadied as I turn the hot water
off, and shiver in the cold
water, smiling.