The Knife

Pocket knife,
normally used
throughout the
daily drudgery—
to open boxes,
perhaps pull out
a cork
when caught
in a bind and
more than
a little parched—
apparently
on one fluke
of a night,
the first of which
was warm
far into
the darkness,
a new use
was found by
haphazardly
swiping
a sweet cotton-clothed
sheath wide open.
It was a sherbet and coral
first-time worn dress,
full of summer and
heat, with pure intentions
of matching the flora
within the recently
bloomed gardens.
And it was
just
uncleanly
sliced open.
Did the knife kill?
No.
But something was
left in pieces
on the floor,
along with
the knife.
And so
later on,
after getting
rid of the
once
Sandra-dee-like
frock,
now in rags,
the body that
was once
a tenant within,
searched
for a replacement.
It was a lackluster attempt
at best,
inside she knew
there wouldn’t be
another.
She settled
for more things
that she didn’t want—
things that couldn’t
match the dress,
or the one night
she lived
those few
hours
in it.