like tempered steel, well-honed to slice
no bruise, the hunter
slides easily between bone, pierces
deftly into the heart and wounds
with a simple twist.
from point to hilt
he pulls back, slowly
from the edge of the blade.
-written about 1993
Published in the broadsheet View from the Second Floor
no one else is home, when
the cat sleeps in the sun, when
the dog next door is distracted, when
not postal carrier nor evangelist will ring the bell, when
I am absolutely certain that I am absolutely going to be alone, when
all that happens sometimes I turn up the music,
dance through the living room, pretend
to be the me who succeeded.