Trystan Popish
KNIFE THROWING
I’m looking at graphs
of my blood sugar,
trying to home in
on that narrow slice
of “okay” my doctors
constantly remind me
I am aiming for.
Too low I might
lose consciousness.
Too high the
complications begin
to cut into my skin.
I’m throwing knives
at a figure tied
to a spinning wheel,
trying to get as close
as possible without
making her bleed.
But I can’t predict
all the variables,
not even after 30 years
of performing this act.
I’m the knife thrower.
I’m also the woman
tied to the wheel,
spinning and grinning,
keeping that smile
plastered on her face
while she tries not
to flinch or scream.
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