Poems from the
Inside
Seek
the light of day . . .
With Knives
A thin grey jacket on a hanger hangs
forlorn, but not forgot. A younger man
once hung it there, on that lonely closet rod.
The thin fabric of left sleeve sliced three times
in a foolish late night fight with knives.
I don't wear it now, but I recall -
The tendon sewn with plastic leaves a bump
that catches when cold damp winds seep through cracks
and swirl around the house. On bone it sticks
beneathe a faded ugly scar of white -
a forked white line upon the knuckle.
Now and then it catches, bids me recall -
An old metal splint lies unforgotten,
dusty in a drawer. Designed for healing
severed tendon, bared metal end honed sharp
for uses unenvisioned but by me.
With flick of wrist I practiced slicing paper
as I healed. Unneeded now, yet I recall -
a cold winter's night, sidewalk patched with snow -
twin knives - one mine - and a can of mace -
three of us, those two and I, did then contend.
Were they friends of 'Ed' once or twice removed?
Who can say, for no one knows, no one asks
but me. I get no answers. Still, I recall -
a can of mace abandoned in the snow -
a tattered glove, drops of blood, the silent street -
twin rows of darkened houses - people slept -
warm blood like cold ice black upon my fingers -
warm blood. Tattered glove. A cold, hard night.
Patchy ice beneathe the feet. 0, I recall.
© D. Winter
September 22, 2007
