God Fearing Blade

This butterfly
knife was made
to kill someone:
Mr. Shanahan, Mrs. Mulberry,
little Erik, young Elise,
maybe even
Pee Wee Herman.

Sharp, black
so it doesnít reflect,
butterfly quick
murder access.

Whatís it doing
in my hand?

I never thought about it
really, until now
my mind has been focused
more on the brass knuckles
in my pocketó
a fighters tool,
not necessarily a
murdererís weapon.

But I just heard the rocks
shift outside my bedroom window,
rocks that line the house,
right beneath the sill.

And then I heard footfalls,
running across the lawn,
through dead leaves.

The same thing
last week.

Someoneís been watching me,
alone at three in the morning,
smoking a bowl and listening
for feet intermingled
with Coltrane.

This blade
in my hand now
makes me conjure
this someone elseís
warm blood
hitting my face,
my lips, my nostrils,
dying my whiskers
and blurring my vision

I put the weed down,
flip the blade
in and out and
stab the air
so this
someone knows
I will
go outside
and gut a mother;
but first
Iím going to let Jane
wear off

by picking the pipe up,
resting the blade
in my lap,
and lighting up,
giving careful consideration
to purchasing a gun
so next time
I can just shoot
through the wall.

But itíll be daytime
before Mary goes away,
I think,
better for me to see
that it was nothing
outside my window,
nothing at all.

Until someone grows
breaks in
and I have no

At least I wonít see
my own face
in this black
black blade,
my crazy
my crazy
my crazy

of murder.

Thatíll be
a time
to avoid
out of fear
because Iím not
ready yet
to see
with the same
on his

Mathias Nelson has poetry forthcoming in
The New York Quarterly, Laurahird, and
Adagio Verse Quarterly. His contact
information and recent publications may be
found at http://www.nyqpoets.net/poet/mathiasnelson

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