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.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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