.
1.
Think a kitchen knife, cold enough, old enough
to sever the knots of night. Then take away the hilt
take away the blade. Leave only the gleam.
This is your knife. And when they say let go, when they say enough
your palms will feel your knife—like fingers, like air—
and say no.
2.
Your river learns from the aspen grove.
It has distance and in its distance it holds swans for safekeeping.
Your river is a voice and it is saying the river
the river
the river is a voice and it is saying the river
the river
the river is a voice and it is saying the river
the river
the river is a voice and it is saying—
The world breaks it in half, spills its blood
but inside your river is only more river.
3.
Your torch dreams
the redwood, the wildfire.
In the dusk the fox is first a shadow
slipping over gnarled root.
Before your eyes adjust, your torch
knows the fur, the swift dark fire.
The fox’s eye a lantern, and in its pupil
your torch alight.
4.
Sure, your cup will yield
to your torch or your knife.
Your river with its hoard of swans
shines finer in the sun. Your cup is nothing really.
A dull unconsecrated shape, a dusty no-thing
that will make no money at auction.
It’s just a wine-slackened mouth
that ever flows with praise. Just a wound
welling with garnets. Just snowmelt
in the river gyred with sewage. Just
scarred hands gone unbeautiful with time. Just
scarred hands shaking. Just scarred hands
joined together, shaking. Just these scarred hands
flowering with sapphires.
Shaoni C. White writes and researches speculative fiction and poetry. Their poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Fantasy Magazine, smoke and mold, Channel Magazine, and Vastarien, and their short fiction has appeared in Uncanny Magazine and PodCastle. Raised in Southern California, they are currently working toward a BA in English Literature and Linguistics at Swarthmore College. Find them at shaonicwhite.com or on Twitter at @shaonicwhite.
