When I have fears
        that I may cease to be
        in Lord and Taylor's basement,
        not by bare bodkin
        but by knife of stainless
        steel and natural wood handle,
        I take stock, stroking the blade,
        checking for smoothness,
        hefting the knife, lifting
        it from its box especially
        designed for gifting purposes,
        despair at cheap goods so done up.
        I see the wrist, not neatly slit,
        but meaty as a severed hand,
        bone, sinews and cartilage;
        imagine bleeding on the fawn
        rug near the imported Italian pottery,
        and being dragged out of danger
        by the sales woman, trying her best
        to make me buy a shirt,
        assuring me that the price
        is right, smiling bully.
        I want to scream, scandalously.
        Instead I take myself
        in hand and up the elevator
        to lingerie and loungewear;
        I finger the figured silk,
        and wonder, keeping silent,
        for how long I need to wire
        my jaw shut.

Copyright © Miriam N. Kotzin, 2004. All Rights Reserved.