the blueshift journal

 

Stemming from my

throat is the long

 

handle
of a kitchen knife, the one with ridged

 

edges on the blade. I pucker

my lips tightly,

 

so you won’t

grab the knife

 

by where it could gut

small animals. Babies.

 

Stray
cats. This silence

 

saves. Water
slips over our hands

 

as we crouch near a faucet,

the wet

 

grass pressing

against our ankles

 

a scenic
illusion. I watch you,

 

quiet

and dark,

 

flexing your fingers

under the cold

 

rush of water,

trying to hold

 

in your hands Wednesday

night, dancers

 

with pretty hips,
a softness​ y​ou're not

 

capable
of comprehending. You reassured

 

me at first, explained

it was how boys

 

resurrected
as men, girls were

 

sculpted
into women, and I, the letters

 

spanning from A to Z, could

metastasize. The

 

knife sleeps

child­-

 

heavy in my

breathing.

I could have been loved in public.