“The Knife”: a poem

The knife

Stuart Higginbotham

I once asked to hold my father’s knife,

the one he kept in the pocket of his blue jeans,

my small fingers shaking as he handed it to me.

He watched carefully as I opened it,

the metal cold as ice as I ran my finger

gently down the flat surface, 

cautious of the edge.

I saw my eye reflected on the blade,

just a flash, then the sky.

When I tried to give it back to him,

he refused.

You must know how to close your knife

if you are going to use it.

An exchange had taken place between us.

He walked away

leaving me with the sharp

lesson I needed to learn.

You must know how to close your knife

if you are going to use it.

You must know.