a
ferret with a lightning stick
rectangles-Circles-Triangles-Square
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
anyway.
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.”
