quieter rainbows & the dull knife

in my drawer i have one knife with
a chipped tooth & a white blade.
i've used it for the last two years 
& sometimes at night it sleepwalks--
standing up on the counter, cutting
invisible cherry tomatoes in half 
in half in half. i have to pick it
up & tell it to go back to sleep. 

we were standing in the supermarket 
parking lot when i thought of the knife again,
saying how it might be useful for 
slicing the rainbows into bite-sized pieces.
they bent their backs across the sky, 
celestial acrobat with her hair down. 
i reach out to run my fingers through it.
silky, like dandelion tufts.

there were two rainbows, one quieter 
than the other. i imagine the louder 
one tastes more like cotton candy 
& less like honey dew.

we sat in the car a few minutes.
i kept the knife a secret because
i didn't want to you worrying about it
going senile & following me where ever i go.

rainbows kicking legs, dipping feet in
cloud. i feel like the muted one--
the one who trembles at the sight of 
knives-- the one who cups her
palms to drink the asphalt dry.

i invite her to come home with us
but she's too shy & she sees that
i'm carrying a knife. out of custom 
she plucked it from my hands to cut
off a morsel of herself.

i ask, is that why you look like a ghost?

she leaves the knife on the dash board.
you didn't notice. we were talking about
how to coax a bed post into taking root.

alone at night i leave my front door
a jar. i unwrap the sliver of rainbow
& take a bite-- hoping she'll feel 
my teeth & walk inside, leave her louder
sibling tucked behind the ear of the sun.
taste of dried cranberry & water. 
she picks up the knife-- cuts off another piece.