In the Dead Grass of November
Dan opened his fist and there
on his muddy palm, a pocket-knife, red,
holding two blades. soon as I saw it
want came to me the way a pig
goes to slop, just pushing its snout in,
not caring what’s in the trough--
open-mouthed and swallowing. so
only thing to do was take it, easy
enough when he hung his coat
and took his seat. now I carry it
in my pocket and it pecks at me
like a blackbird, wearing a deep hole.
can’t nobody tell me I done wrong
because I already know.
only take it out when I’m alone--
big blade good for carving, small
for poking holes like the eyes
of a pot shot crow.
Judy Kaber's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Eclectica, Crab Creek Review, Miramar, Off the Coast, and The Comstock Review. She is a retired elementary school teacher living in Maine.
The Ekphrastic Review
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