Stab Wounds

Like a knife plunged into my heart

Is one way to say it,  but death by

A thousand fork-tines is the usual way,

Or by constant scooping away with a spoon

At my melon-seed soul.  There are a million

Stories I’ll never get to tell, like when

Kathy Smith, a stringy girl of about 10,

Stabbed her older brother Keith in the back

With a fork, so I heard, imagining in horror.

Maybe my heart on a plate for the dogs

To clean up is apter.  Which reminds me

Of a story I heard in camp on the river trip

That I’ll also never tell you now.   It’s not

The knife that stabs me, it’s the silence.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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