Thin Blade

When I hear my friend say the old

problems of literature are dead,

the problems of love, marriage, and betrayal,

I remember myself in the kitchen, my heart cold.

The knife drawer was open.

The blades were hot from the dishwasher.

The edge of the thinnest blade honed to a razor edge.

There was a hum from the air filters.

Bass notes beat in from the next apartment.

I looked through the pass-through down

the long length of the living room.

My husband was sleeping in his chair.

The sleep of exhaustion.

The empty armrests were like bulwarks.

John’s hands lay folded over his groin,

his legs wrapped to keep them from swelling.

Rough breaths came from his open mouth.

I calculated the place of entry, just to the side

of the breastbone, deep between the pink nipples,

into his strong broad chest and the heart

that will not beat even once without the pulse

from a coin-size device under his skin, and thought

should he wake, he will ask, Would you please . . . . ?

And should I help, thank me with unbearable courtesy.

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The John and Mim Poems is a portrait of a marriage and Miriam Levine’s gift to you.