by Julie Elise Landry
The urge to stick
a knife in things—it
happens now (and again)
and I see the knife sharp slice
something like a podium,
a crisp lettuce line through
waving grains of wood,
disrupting the ripples
with no more trouble
than a finger
in water.
And I feel the resistance—
of the podium or
the curtain or the face—
on the handle of the blade
I’m not holding. That little
push bridges between us
and offers me a way.
The urge to write on skin,
my skin. The urge to bend
my fingers back, back, off.
Pricks to the brain, jolt-switches
that surge now (and again).
And I’d fill your throat with
fabric tears, static
poison touch. Your breath
would cut through dryer
sheets and smell like
linen breeze.
Julie Elise Landry’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in diode poetry journal, Backchannels Journal, HOOT Review, and more. She is pursuing an MFA in poetry from the University of New Orleans, and she serves as an Associate Poetry Editor for Bayou Magazine.
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