Crimson stains the steel edge

This tool…

My enemy
My friend

The glint it hints
Beckons me
Calling me to my end

The pain, a thing I yearn to feel
The object that makes me feel real


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      1. You managed a lot of visuals as well as viscerals with very few words. That one stuck with me through the day yesterday. I watched the people in a restaurant, and watched the traffic on the interstate, and I wondered how many of those people might read that poem and feel a kinship with your edge. So many people, smiling, eating a meal, yet we have no idea who they are. The waitress in the tight shorts with the friendly demeanor, is part of the scenery, part of the machine that serves food, but is she writing with that edge at the end of her shift, demoralized by having to deal with being a game show hostess for eight hours for dollar tips and soft porn remarks from men who fantasize about her when their wives aren’t around? What if she wore a shirt with that poem on it? What if there was a sign on the table that had that on it, and people knew what she was feeling behind that smile?

        I sat in my work truck and watched cars, trucks, and motorcycles fly by me on the Interstate, I-75, Lowndes County Georgia, and I read the poem aloud, in my truck, until I felt the rhythms of the highway and the poem meet. There’s a woman named Sister Catherine who reads the Bible outloud to traffic in Valdosta, waving one hand in the air, beseeching supernatural healing for the drivers perhaps, and I wonder where her edge was drawn into her flesh. How many of the people, thousands of them by the time work began, tens of thousands by the end of the day, hundreds of thousands of the end of the job, and millions a year, I wonder, Sara, where the edge is drawn in each person, into their flesh, until the release of pain and red blood cells, finally dries and coagulates, or doesn’t, perhaps, for each one of us, as surely as we live, the river inside of us stops flowing, at some edge.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. I am not sure anybody has looked into any of my poems as you just did and to be honest, I’m not entirely sure how to respond. You have made me think though. The world is such a big place, yet can feel so small compared to the worlds we build up inside our own minds.


      3. The beauty of abstract painting is it reveals everything yet defines nothing. It guides the viewer yet does not command vision but rather allows it. Your poem had that affect on me. It’s edge cut deep enough to allow a totally unexpected flow.

        Liked by 1 person

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