"Weaponry" | Poetry Contest | Indy Week

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You slice garlic at my kitchen table

with five inches of fine Italian steel.

I watch concentration still your face

and tension move through your hands.

I measure the smooth length of wood between us.

If I could hone my desire it would be

a supple knife at your throat

begging for the sweet taste of skin.

If you let your guard slip

as evening scorches across the sky,

I would strike

light dripping red from my blade.

I would steal into your soul

to breathe myself into your thoughts,

clothe myself in your impulses and taste

your every idea. I would rest

inside your body and cradle

your heart between my hands.

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