Your way
That woman lingers
Loves me loudly and in secret
She doesn’t know how to whisper
And likes to yell at strangers
I think I could kill her
With a few phrases about god or childhood
I think she’s looking for a knife
Somewhere in my kitchen
What the sharp phrases would be
The ones that would kill me
Love, you don’t need the knife
You have your hands
Your hair, your eyes
The space between your torso and mine
You have your laugh in the passenger seat
You simply have your way
What do I have?
Some drunken confessions
It’s a sharp knife
You gave it to me off the whetstone one night
Hands cracked and oily
I tried to leave it there with you
By the forge and the stone you tend alone
But you have those hands
That hair, those eyes reflecting the fire
That way of yours
Of pressing the knife against my chest, flat
Into my hands insistently
Yours is the only knife in my kitchen