cutting to the bone.
The love that’s forever outside
can only enter as a blade
piercing the skin to the heart beneath.
I send it back,
that outside love,
that cuts the hand that wields it,
as surely as it cuts me,
the blade that enters the heart
that craves it
in such an other way.
But the knife knows only cutting,
and so I send it back.
I keep instead
inside that unpierced globe,
the love that pours like water, that
cleans and floats
the heart, that could
wash the blood
from a hundred knives.
photo: Voodoo Knife Block from gadzooki.com