he says, turning the knife in his hand like
etched diamond. The blade flicks shapes
that ripple the surrounding dim. Above,
moonlight breaks at leaf-range.
Like a whip then he snaps, letting go—
the temporary shard of light (which sings)
lodging itself in a Sycamore-breast.
I almost hear its vibrato gain and permeate
the initial stab. A wooing noise: Unattainable
in full measure with the human ear. Behind him,
I’m placing his eyes on the other side of his head
in the dark: Loud and still.
He leaves to take a piss—enough time for me to sit
against the big tree, dressed in full moonlight,
and look up at the jutted hilt marking the buried jewel.
A violent hand: Emotional, but sturdy.
He returns and I tell him that he should have
been a painter. He laughs. Pleasantly curbs
the available words—some submissive remark,
no doubt. And soon after we collect wood to build a fire.
Even in its early stages, across
flickering, color detail, I determine something in his
stare: Sentimental, but adamant—surfacing
from the shrouding dim—a full
chest-rupturing jealousy floods me with
knives. Even the moon’s peeking quietly.
But it’s just what the best can do to us if, see, here—
he’s eyeing the hilt. Keep looking:
He stays loud and still, staring—flickers
edging away at the dim. Salient under
quiet moon. Just a remarkable contour.