Crossed knives are a bad omen
in the same way loose chords
are an asking moment.
Finger to an open flame
flesh against a bared blade,
split second decisions for splitting.
I should not taste the nail head,
should not press my tongue to the buckle
of its pockmarked tooth,
see if there is any bite left in the iron,
if it will be the last one in a row.
Six feet seems like such a long way
I would look like a marionette
with my tangle of strings
about my throat.
Heart skittering like a humming bird
still trapped inside its cage.