The Knife, Part I

[Poem XXVIIIa]

     An ode.
     To violence and all murderous acts!

A quick flash of light in the night and
life is taken,
claimed by the night (or
reclaimed by a thing that we think
only exists where light is absent—but
more likely just prefers
the dark):
This is how much life is worth to
the knife.

Din shatters the silence of the night;
shattering one life, leaving others
shattered.
The final testament only:
raised voices,
heat in the head, heat in the body,
act less thought,
a flash, light,
a knife.

What is it like? to
handle a knife with the intent—that intent.
A purpose that nestles in
so quickly and
so naturally—as if
it has always been there but just needed
nothing more than a nudge to
waken from
latency, or rather, to be
freed from the restriction of
morality—that, according to
the knife, has never really been human anyway.

How does one
do away with the hesitation and
accept the intent?
And what is the
thrust in like?
The first resistance of paper-like
skin, then the resistance of
outer flesh?
muscle and bone?
then finally, perhaps, ending in a
beating heart.
Which cycled the
blood—that is now a nuisance-liquid (to
the knife and the intent), staining hand but
satisfying
the knife.

M.M. — Aprilis MMXII