It’s not a knife on cold sheets, angled profiles through the thick handle; promises of limits. With no purpose always damp, pulsing. If it were a knife it’d keep standing on what resists it. If it were, I would then clean it, and putting it away, would not remember. As knives can not remember. If it were, every time my hands are in that pocket, I would feel it say “here it is, now yes, oh you couldn’t, but try! Try!” it would always repeat no matter the time, the place “try now, now if you can!” Over and over again, because it’s never tired and smells nothing, sees nothing, It does not care enough, Oblivious to all distinctions As distinguishers are not, neither suffocate nor dizzy turn. It’s not, since my hands are in that pocket and bleed not, wounded mortally, Fed without flight. As you don’t see me gushing; As I’m not. It’s not a knife, a guillotine, an axe, a sickle. It’s not a dagger, a lance. Tanners would not recognise it, nor grinders. They come twice a month, they say “Ma’am, anything to sharpen?” And what could I say in response Since its not a penknife, a dirk, a scimitar, a sabre; if it were It would do fine for food as well. The baker knows, the butcher knows. That is good to cure Aware as well the doctor If it were a knife today, right now, if it were in my hands to forget, if it were a mirror-like blade I would see myself as through a crevice, not worthy, not enough to, not enough. It’s just not. It’s what there is not. There’s not. For all that’s not. Weeping is not enough, because it’s not a knife and its pain not meant to end nor satisfy.