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Penknife Flinch

I tear myself like I'd
tear you,
and I push my chest against the
thinnest cage I can.
I tear you like
I tear myself,
open as the Swiss army
let me be,
all these little pieces to
unfold and hope,
but know, they slip back to their own place to
present a sleek smooth body
without aberrations.  
You need a hand to make it work.
The grooves for your fingernails are pretty useless
when all you've got between you are
blades and sprung scissors, the kind some
body used to cut
up your libido years ago, and then
you had no appetite
for anything at all.
The Swiss have their ways of
stealing your gold
and leaving you
neutral but for scarlet marks the spot,
laughing stretcher-bearers uninvolved,
and you, left as just their
single little act of violence, their contribution to
a safer world for our children,
a toy with moving parts and
sharp edges, stiffly ready in your hinges,
painted just the colour of a cardinal
or sin,
and jealous of the unknown soldier,
if it comes to that.

4 May 07

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