The job is to ensure
that the kitchen knives 
stay sharp

Sweeping the blades
at thirty degrees
across the diamond stone

to be certain 
they will cut
when called upon

and to make a place
for them to hang
within easy reach when needed

There was a time
when a kitchen knife
cut meat and roots and throats

with equanimity
and no one thinking
it should be otherwise

as the red gushing neck
of the hen too old
to lay any more

promised nothing
but a good dinner
and a hearty soup

Just part of the cycle
of the household
That whole life and death thing

which we no longer have
to think about
as we go about our day

from 1989 

1.

At the pre-shift meeting,
our ops manager
talks down
to the crew boss.

He repeats himself often,
speaks loudly,
pronounces Namthavone’s name wrong twice
and in two different ways.

He explains to me later
that he understands these people,
thanks to two tours he did in country.
“I had a lot of fun there,” he tells me.

I say nothing to this.

I am remembering
that Namthavone
once told a story in ESOL class
about his tattoos –
the script that runs
around his body,
up and down the arms,
up through his hairline 

at the back of his neck.
He said they date back to
when he fought in the Highlands
for the CIA against the Communists.
He said they were charms
against bullets, knives;
incantations
to avoid being seen
by those who would do him
harm.

2.
At dinner,
Larry explains
how Spanish women
are passive by nature.

Again I say nothing,
recalling Lourdes and Santa
after second shift last Thursday,
standing toe to toe with boxcutters
on the median strip
just off the factory property,
mad eyes hidden
in third-shift darkness.

Lourdes had just told Santa

that she was sleeping

with her man Ruben.
Santa replied

that must be where

he’d caught the drip.

I see them raise their arms
as the first cruisers arrive
and scatter the watchers.

It took three cops to tear

Santa from Lourdes,
four to hold Lourdes back

once that was done.

From where I sit tonight,
I can see the women seated
on either side of Ruben,
still bandaged, not speaking,
forcing alternate bites

of their cooking on him,
re-drawing the rules of engagement.

3.
Daniel Opong walks into work
and announces that he entered this country
under a false name
but now has established legal residency
and after ten years working here as
Daniel Opong
wishes to be called
by his real name,
Anthony Otoo.

“Who do they think they are?”
says Pauline, our personnel manager.
“That’s the third one this month. How dare they?”

I am told to fire him
for falsifying his application.
I refuse.

I suggest that she would do the same thing
if she were facing whatever
Daniel faced back home.
I lose. I am reprimanded.
He is fired anyway, nods when I tell him
about the personnel office’s decision,
then shakes my hand.

I apologize.
“You do not have to be sorry,
because I’m not sorry”,
he tells me
as he leaves.

“I would do it again.”

I am hoping I would.

4.
Araminta tells me
that she used to hate
having me for a boss,
but now she thinks I’m ok.

I don’t know
what I’m doing differently these days,
and I tell her that.

She doesn’t know either,
but she’s sure she’s right.

I tell her
I’m not sure I agree with her,
I think I keep quiet a lot more often
than I should.

She looks at me
for a long minute,
saying nothing.

5.
The management team 
always leaves
after everyone else is gone.
On a Friday night, we usually head 

to McGuire’s for a beer,
McGuire’s because we’re sure not to see
any of our employees there.

When I drive home from the bar
later that night,
the apartments
that line the road to the factory
are still lit and raucous.
There’s a party going on somewhere.

I recognize a few of the cars outside from the factory lot.

I don’t know who lives here.

Sometimes I think

none of us
knows
 anyone who lives here.