Poem 49 Revised

It was the knife that warned of mortality
when it pulled ink wells from skin cells,
And it catches you off guard, every time
how sharp it is, how plain the sound of pain.
A ringing, an overtone droll and you pull
your heavy hand away from the dish rag,
always startling how easily it slices.
The human skin so much like butter.


Please Join the Conversation

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s