A Good Knife

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.

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