Orchard of Knives
In the orchard of knives,
the trees whisper your name.
Mouths full of rotten fruit
cackle at the blistered moon.
And you walk through, barefoot,
picking the sharpest blade
to slice out the loneliness
rooted in your throat.
Funeral Shoes
I bought
a pair of funeral
shoes today.
Black leather,
stiff as a scream.
The assistant
smiled
like a woman
flogging coffins.
Thought about
returning them.
Didn’t.
I’ll wear them
everywhere.
To the bar.
To the fights.
To the last
slow dance
on earth.
You never know
when the ground
will open up.
And it’s best
to be ready.
Steven, I often ponder what makes a sharply effective poet, and in reading your verse I am given my answer. It is an almost otherworldly familiarity with vocabulary and word usage. “Black leather…stiff as a scream,” says it all. Humbly, I say, thank you!