Nothing pinned

In one flick I let it go

like a knife-thrower at a circus
and it strikes home
trembling at its place
beside your face
but nothing is pinned
it leaves you free
to walk away

 

Did I tell you

my foremothers
were hewers of wood
and tillers of land?
they had nothing to do
with throws of sharp edged knives
at love or life.
Or poetry.

How then have I wandered

into this marquee
in sequinned
leotards, you and me?
distorted blood in my veins
knife in hand, between my teeth
cutting silver arcs
in the air and nothing pinned.



For OPL@dVerse