She says this knife is for his balls.
The moon loses blood every night.
She says this knife is for the long hair
that sweeps the streets at sunrise.

Ay, yayayayay.
I don’t want that knife.
I don’t want that knife.
I’ll sleep along the river. I’ll shiver
in the milk of my mother.
I don’t want that knife,
that terrible knife
weeping with seeds and butter,
weeping with blood.
Ay, yayayayay, weeping with blood.

She says this knife is for his heart,
the way it beats like a bird
and covers her breasts with lies.
She says this knife is for the hand
that holds it, the hand that forgets it.
She says this knife only forgives
bread on the table, crumbs on the floor.

I don’t want that knife. Not that knife.
Ay, yayayayay.

I’ll sleep in the weeds with my sister.
I’ll cover the moon with a pillow of blood.
Ay, yayayayay.
Cover the moon with a pillow of blood.