"Jackknife in Your Jeans"
You knew it was there
in the front pocket, right there
with the quarter for lunch, the nickel
for a Milky Way -- you carried metal undetected,
unsuspected, free to come and go. You knew
the bone polish of its flanks,
honed burnish of its blade:
spit on the whetstone, rub circles
to perfect the edge. Remember
the tidy heft of it, how you gauged it
just right to make it turn
once and a half in the air, stick
between your buddy's feet. No fear
unless some greasy stranger,
two years older but still in your grade,
flashed a danger-blade six inches long,
snick-click and you imagined
bloody slash, tight circle jab-dance,
hold on, this is way too serious. You'd stick
to the friendly corner of the schoolyard,
a place to practice. Maybe the principal
came out in his shirt sleeves
to show you a trick. Across the way girls
might turn from their jacks and jump-ropes,
whisper something new and old, something
you needed to grasp, but that would be later:
later with room in your pocket
to fold it away, keep it in waiting,
keep it where you could find it, ready
when it was time.
© 2009 Michael Harty
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