Saturday, March 24, 2007
A man was a blade on a pocketknife. He would be folded out and forced to bite a splinter from a gigantic finger. Or he would be jammed into a wine cork and tickled until he extracted it with a pop. Because of his grit, he was used to sharpen his own tongue, which would flash in the golden hour of sunset. Once in a meadow he was employed to saw through the stems of flowers. He was covered in glittery pollen, felt happy and free. But then the big hand plunged him deep into the soil to clean him. It was there he learned the world’s dark secret. He chipped a tooth on a bronze baby slipper that he faintly recalled as his own.