Sara Rempe
May you forgive me
for thrusting a knife
at your abdomen that stifling afternoon
you cornered me by the stove, pressed
my young back to the kitchen door. I was sure
you were going to break me, I
snatched the shining blade from the draining
board, felt myself dive into my fear
like I was diving into the wide pool
where some of us almost went blue.
I don’t think I wanted to kill you, yet
I let my arm plunge through the air—
your hand grabbed, fingers
clamped the force
of the stab before it hit your gut, it slit
your palm and we dropped
the knife, the fight, shook: left
each other’s side, you—to cleanse your
wound, bright blood, me—to find a new crevice
in which to hide. Who knew
what pressures were breaking
us? Or why? How difficult
it is to find an action
for anger. We flail, are stunned—I pray
to honor the last vein
of fear preserving
such love.
Sara Rempe is a writer and educator in New York. She earned her BA in creative writing and her MFA in poetry at Hunter College, where she received a teaching fellowship and a Norma Lubetsky Friedman Scholarship. She teaches at Hunter College and Fordham University. www.sararempe.com
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