He said he loved one of my poems, so I asked him which one. He responded, “The one about dying.” I told him he’d have to be more specific. He smiled and quoted the following, which I’d never written:
SCABBARD
A knife sinks
in my chest
a little
every day.
My flesh gives
to the blade
and whets it
on the way.
I don’t fear
the descent
or hurry
what I say—
A knife sinks
in my chest
and sharpens
all it may.