Elizabeth Lee Vines

Knife to Knuckles

I’ve been chopping the bad way again.
Sometimes when my fingers
are so brazen as to be
uncurled over the carrots, I think
of you, armed to the teeth with your knife
roll and the coat pocket coke
you didn’t want me to know about.

You zipped me once,
in a sleeping bag that
smelled like your backpacking trips.
Brought me back to Bishop
and the time you swore
SPF chapstick is a scam,
something I’d never need on my lips.

I didn’t speak much inside
the cage of your forearms
against my ribs, but the sun
responded in violet bolts splitting
my lower lip down the middle.
We had fun. I didn’t notice
until I tasted blood.

My lips are better now.
I’ve stopped hearing outside
voices swearing about needs
of my body. My blades are dull,
but I am unconcerned.
I chop my carrots how I chop them.
I gloss my mouth and open it to run.

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Elizabeth Lee Vines is a poet living in Nevada City, California. Her poetry has been published in One Art, and they have attended workshops at Brooklyn Poets.