Knife song – a poem

Remember that little human
boy who couldn’t read aloud –
who couldn’t hold a pen
because his slick corn oil skin
kept sliding past itself?

Boy, oh, boy.
And he was born a hundred
years too late for his cowboy
dreams. He rides herd on the
maybes and the somedays.
He sang a knife song – one
that sliced up the rigid spines
of teachers and parents alike
and parted them before him
like God-spoken seas.
Deft elision somewhere between
his teeth and tongue, lyrical, his
words in other men’s mouths.
Knife song honed with lime,
polished with manteca.
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