He wears a sheathed knife on his hip,
dreams of carving things, creating things
like wooden limbs for jointed birch dolls.

The ridges on his thumb make the blade ring.
He’s prepared for whatever and wonders
if he’ll ever have to use it. Hopes not.

He earns his keep, barely. Lives alone,
mostly. Unhooks his brass buckle,
snaps off his soft leather belt, sometimes

whips and whips his goose-feather pillow.
Soft, muffled thumping. Downy angel blood.
He stops to watch the face in the mirror.

The child peeks through the closet slot.
Sees a figure snatch keys and leave.
Wet toothpick mashed between yellow teeth.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s