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 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.
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November 2023
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