Careless Edge

Back and forth

back and forth.

The serrated edge of the butter knife,

against fissured bark.

White knuckled grip on the excuse

for a handle, while my other hand

grasps the tree for any support—

embedding wood chips and indents

deep in my skin.

The essence of life— rooted

deeply in the tree.

My father— the butter knife.

The tool to chop down all obstacles—

guiding me through pine and conifer.

Assisting me as I hew through

the layers of life.

How the fuck am I supposed to

husk through timber

on my own.

I'm ignorant to life's secrets and short-cuts—

all he has to offer is

a mere presence.

He is a bystander while I struggle— I have

no choice.

Back and forth

back and forth.