Drop the knife.

There, in the grass,

where the dirt path

crumbles away.

Eight-inches of steel –

sharp as tongues;

full tang clasped

between worn halves

of oiled mahogany.

Blade among blades.

It sings when drawn

over stone.

Old knife.

Older than you.

Knife of Dwayne Young.

Left in a drawer of the stone

house Dwayne built for his

wife. She never joined him

there – preferred the one-

room cottage at the back of

the property. In 1964, your

father married your mother,

bought Dwayne’s house.

Found the knife. In 1988, he

passed the knife along. To

you. A series of partings.

Forgettings. Accidental.

Intentional. Drop the

knife. They’re coming.

Don’t be implicated

Leave it there.

In the grass.

Walk away.

You’ve done

nothing

wrong.

Let

go

.

 

— C.Birde