from “spirit knife”

i wanted the knife to open with a different sound maybe a different language     

the hiss of a sudden shower gusting against the webbed windowpane    

the dainty thumbprints time leaves in the corners of the glass are different         

my thumbs small but not dainty like that the traces i leave are greasy redolent of manhood and perfume     

flowers a forest of trillium mayapple and trout lily    

i wanted the knife to help define my parameters to offer a type of groundedness or touchstone      

i’ve tried to do that—find a touchstone in my body and in space i move through

and even space i love tried to find a touchstone in others friends loved ones       


i don’t know my family don’t know what i am in there i think my family is nothing to do with my body     

but there’s the blood the mess of the blood and always there’s the madness that white madness     

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