1.   You pinch, she says her knuckles punched in faces, cracked with work, breathing their sentence to me across the cold air, putting the knife in my new hand, it must be new it is shaking and then the crisp exact nature of the first cut– onions, blood.     2.   You take on knowing the way of this, cloth licking ink, water, muscle linking nerve, heavy with a thin sharp edge and its motions the song that parts and pieces your minutes, hours, the deep hard heat of taking from the whole, first one leaf then another another another.           3.   The days are some sleepless rotation, bitter black coffee, sly dirt dawns, cold one at a…