a ferret with a lightning stick
roots of anxiety, diminutives of despair—
traced back down the vein of time—
back to when hours mattered about as much
as days—when a paycheck was procured, simply by
extending ones hand and doing chores.
a jack-o-lantern plump and thick
with a green crooked stem, where a
bit of browns come to be, right at the
base, of course it was bald of hair—
inches away the black mark stays—
it wouldn’t have though, if the incision
properly followed the circles path—simple
instructions, an easy task to make—well
carving a pumpkin should not be difficult
the anxiousness creeps the chin, I hoped
you wouldn’t see, but I think you did. I have
a problem, well more than a few, yet the only
one I’m referring to right here and now, has
to do with patience, which unfortunately, I’ve
either been blessed with none or had never
taken the time to slow down.
the reflection mirroring out through the backside
face of the knife, carves me hollow every time—as
the image of my very own, sharps back to me—it should go with out saying, but I’ll speak of it anyway—the entire process was greatly irritating. Minutes, seconds, hours—not entirely true, but felt like days elapsed when only moments had—silver shining in those shaking hands, barely piercing the orange—then when you did, it was up and out, up and out.
the black line was intact—that damn black line was intact.
you lacked the strength to drive through—but tenacity—that I’ll very well provide to you. You made no gripes, bitch you did not, all the while pushing through the, what I can only imagine as intense frustration—of the strength you once held in possession, the being nowhere, never found—the time it was taking you, the struggling, the determination—me, looking over your shoulder—you, knowing how I am—but not a word was spoken, not a single one—but time, time was miserable, it couldn’t wait.
you asked me to fetch you a drink of water. You claimed some invisible ailment, to which you placed the carving knife atop the lacquered wood. You sat down, hand stretched out. The faucet ran so fast—but as I thought at the time, perhaps it was just contextual speed in comparison to—I lost track for a moment and overfill—the water did spell out—over and upon my top of hand, trickling quickly in its spill—faucet to water, water to hand, hand to sliding down arm, wetting the inside sleeve—all went unseen—wiped off the wetness—handed you the glass—when you noticed the spot of seepage too—I realized, then and there—a split moment of thought, an excuse—to mask perspiration—failed though, it just appeared—in this, the thinnest air I’ve lately breathed.
as you sipped your glass—as each gulp washed away—the pressure—the tension—built up inside—I picked up the knife—by it’s handle—I pierced the flesh, I pierced in deep—never separating hand from blade-blade from black mark—once entered, there it stayed.
This is when you said, “ I was…”—to which I— simply nodded—saying, “I know—yes, I know.”