BLADE UPON BARK
His first knife. His first nick. He hid the bloody finger behind his back. Snuck past the prophet at the kitchen sink and headed for the first aid kit. Just a paper cut he said. Please pass the meatloaf. Seer saw the truth but held her tongue. Carving boy grew up but never left the wilderness. Sought treatment and treaties, for years held a truce taming trees into totems and birds—so many ravens and crows flew from his hands, soared from the knife, wood brought to life with each caress of the blade upon bark, upon flesh and bone, sometimes his own—in the end his own. Knife traded for car. The tree feels its impact, bears his mark.
on her back her mind wanders
the aisles of Whole Foods or perhaps the bluffs of Pierce Stocking Trail. Such odd appellation— for both— if one ponders, and one has the time each Saturday at ten, sometimes even Thursday at four. Surprise! How lovely lovemaking is with your very best friend, even as your brain meanders and ganders at the cracks in the ceiling, and goodness, that light fixture is dusty! Lust is a funny mixture of trust and lists. Letting go and taking stock, webbing and deflowering, the sieve and stake of pleasure. Sheets twisted, damp with sweat, call the vet, thaw the meat, cup the balls, pay the bills. Oh, she’s coming! Now she’s back— on her back, making love, making lists.
Ann Weil is an award-winning educator and writer/researcher from Ann Arbor, Michigan. Her poetry can be read or is forthcoming in Third Wednesday, Thimble Literary Magazine, Shooter Literary Magazine, The Healing Muse, Halfway Down the Stairs, West Trade Review and numerous other publications. She earned her M.A. and Ed.D degrees from the University of Michigan, and when not writing poetry can be found in the lotus position pretending to meditate.