Kathleen Barta
THE KNIFE
She picked the one with the small black handle wanting to know the point
Started slowly just below her left thumb, probing the surface, seeking, then seeing
A red wake down her arm branching at the crook
First one drop, then two, three as the skin spread open on the way to her heart
Continuing up at 45 degrees, no sensation only deep red
To the curve of her shoulder where it spilled, a waterfall across her breast
Washing over the spot he used to caress with interest, care and delight.
The tip dug deeper over her sternum, releasing more of her to pool in her navel
Switching hands she continued to dig, dig, dig, the trench
Seeking a place to hide but with less precision, the knife tip dulled from its past journey
Ending at the place just below her right thumb near the artery of Venus
She pleaded for the sticks and stones that might repair the damage
from the words that hurt – could this be the last great war?
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