Of Thick Night and Keen Knife

Of Thick Night and Keen Knife

Kim Salac
Media Staff

Out damned spot


You stay on my fingertips,

Fingertips stained with the blood of blackberries


In the space under my fingernails

A smell sweet but faded


Your sharp juice doesn’t leave my tongue

Even though wafer after wafer I consume


I squeeze your pulp like a fruit

Trying to dry you out, will you dry out?


In your thorns I am enveloped

Just as in your nectar, I drown. 


And when goes hence? 


On beds of liverwort and lichen

Thistle clambers under a rowan


Lady Althaea sings a winter song

A revelry in frost and silver


Clavicle taut under ghostly skin

A dagger plunged in frozen ground


What’s to be done?


The soothsayer opens his palms

For one who suffers the journey of no return