Not an especially deadly weapon,
It had many other uses:
Flaying an apple, carving a
lovers name on a tree trunk,
Cleaning your nails are but a
few examples
Of the life and works of your
garden variety swiss army knife.
We bought our knives at the
corner convenience store.
I remember the smell of sawdust
that pervaded the place.
This time I wasn’t buying
cigarettes for Dad.
We were buying admission to
“cool”.
Now, so many years later,
Sorting through the remains
Of our all too brief childhoods,
We puzzle over the improbability
That we have both retained
This piece of history.
These twins of incipient manhood
No longer resemble one another.
I have continued to live in the
city,
Using my knife to cut string on
occasion
And pry a jar of marmalade open.
You have whittled hearts and
initials
On tree trunks, and cut cactus
for dinner, traveling were you please.
No surprise that our knives attest to different journeys
How odd that we should image the
religion
You and I thought we shared
Like the knives, has been
modified by our handling,
And the spirit that you call god differs from mine.
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