Folded, slick. Its weight a small comfort
against Wi-Fi, infomercials, modern uselessness.
Unfold the blade, relish its click, slight recoil.
Repeat until the motion becomes familiar as a kiss,
harmless as Love’s initials carved into a desk.
Wooden handle, worn to near-ebony patina
from decades of sweat’s affections, laughs off
plastic cutlery and office-soft retirement parties.
Its steel is stainless, non-descript but for one long,
wise eye, thinnest of thin-lipped grins.
Tongue so sharp it screamed heads clean off
in France, cursed and spat paths through brush
and jungle, coaxed scalps from skulls to win
the West. A good knife is cousin Shrapnel refined,
brutal accent honed to focus, one step closer
to the silver-tongued niece, Scalpel.
More than obsidian’s stone-aged stabs
at evolution, a good knife can pry, persuade,
define. Found at the end of every revolution rifle,
cutting March in half between Caesar’s ribs,
right at home in the steady palm of Brutus.
A good knife assisted earth’s first murder,
cleaving brother from brother, inventing Evil
just to fuck with Good. When a blade trembles
in your hand it trembles because it remembers
the last beat and twitch of Abel,
that first realization of Man’s potential.