Saturday, December 18, 2010

Ode to the hunting knife

Your scabbard is the laughter
of any man who once lived
on the big end of surprise.
You sound like a violin
when drawn swift – blade
singing a soft death
against the leather as it births
toward the light and then

your sweet weight,
like a small cantaloupe
or a large avocado – the heft
it is how you catch light
like that twinkling like a shower
of glitter dust as you swipe down.

When I roll my fist around
your handle, four fingers nestle
the hilt’s grooves like piglets
against the sow’s underside.

Spine against my forearm
I become weapon;
my hands beams of light –
my whole body dances
musiced by your handle’s
intricate carvings

our love
is close – our history
Sometimes it is your song
I want again your kiss
against my skin
the blood-letting


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