Albert Wendt

         This knife on the kitchen
table,
         black wooden handle with
two shiny eyes of rivets, 
                                   single-
edged and curving to a metaphysical
point on which angels can't perch,
         is caught in its breathing
shadow
         a quiet legend of itself
open to the hanging light in
         Luis Borges' dreaming.

This knife smiles a slow quiver
         of teethlight savouring
                the blood's rich message.
Whose blood? Gauchos duelling
         in grimy saloons lost in 
         the myths of the pampas?

This knife hones its alertness on
         the expectation of hunting/stab-
         ing/slashing/cutting,
                                    on crouch-
ing deadstill like its victims.

              It fits
the assassin's grip, the dueller's
mad courage, which will grant
         it shape and ferocity.
Or is it the reverse? asks Borges.

         It's  more than its 
shadow and smile, more than
the legend of light        

© Albert Wendt

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Last updated 11 May 2001