running with scissors

i'm not tempting disaster 
i am sleeping its nest.
last night a monster came
& died in the middle of the street.
all the cars put on their high beams
to drive around the body.
at least i trust my ability to fall.
my father used to help me practice.
we would go in the yard & 
he'd push my chest hard & fast
so that i'd tumble over.
learn to curve your body
like a question mark 
& you'll never break.
i would just just rocking horse 
to the dirt. chose my favorite knife 
& steal it from the kitchen. 
sometimes i am meat & sometimes
i am pear guts. running towards
no one at all. a bridge with 
outstretched arms. everything
to be done with the tool.
carving faces in the oldest trees.
i will cut snow flakes & hang them
from the ceiling of my paper life.
chasing after a shadow 
slipped lose from its body.
i am not the good samaritan.
there is little room for stopping
if i am going to deliver myself
to the mouth i'm aiming for.
a stop sign faints & no one 
replaces it. monster's body 
becomes bones. headlights make 
cathedral shadow shapes until
a whole year has past & it's mostly dust.
we don't talk about those kinds
of demise. public & unspoken.
i cut a lock of a lover's hair
with my scissors while they sleep.
they don't notice or don't mention it.
i pocket it until spring.
when the dirt is warm again
i press the strands into the dirt
& run far away, the scissors
still in hand. 

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