I know they gave you knives
to replace the small
soft fingers that used
to paint on soft paper
and now carve

And that your eyes
so deeply engaged
with your mind
(for learning)
studied instead
the topography of anger
and other
"ographies"
of wounding

Is there a way out
without giving up
this dark, chiseling art
that has been your
companion and armament
in a world they made
more dangerous
by bringing you
into it

Ultimately you
are the weapon
of your creators
(not robotic
though still following
their instructions)

Do you really crave
an emotional solstice
an even-ing
of the dark and light
that flows like ink
and paper through
the poetic blades
of your sharpener

Or do you prefer
this turbulent swimming
breaking the surface
for only the occasional
gasp of air
and god and self

I know you swim
casually with the shark
of your past
(this supple,
crucial conspirator)
and how he efficiently
shreds those you
cannot willingly
victim on your own

and though you feed
always second
you continue to grow
for your talent is no
plankton-grubbing whale
it requires meat
and blood
and cartilage
and when none arrives
you have been known to feed it
chunks of your own corpse
(yes, I too know the secret
sacrifice of that which is
already dead)

So in th end
you alone decide
to become your own
emotional equinox

But then
what to do with these
fingery knives
when the arrival
of the next lover
calls for
caresses