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.