The Poetry of a Knife

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The glint cut

right to left and back

Again and again, flashing

like the silvery zig zag of minnows

underfoot in the ocean,

too quick to follow yet

too mesmerizing to look away

This is what she remembered:

Not pain

for that didn't come until after

but a strange admiration

for the man's deft precision

An artist touching the canvas of her face

with a brush stroke here, there

Filling in lines and shadows

that render a portrait recognizable

And yet

When she reached up to touch,

 nose, cheeks, mouth,

they were unfamiliar and

her hands, when she looked,

were covered in blood

like red paint, sticky and crimson.

submitted (late and w/apologies) for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Vignette