TAKING STOCK
http://www.maverickmagazine.com/articles/279/1/TAKING-STOCK/Page1.html
Miriam N. Kotzin
Miriam N. Kotzin teaches Literature and Creative Writing at Drexel University in Philadelphia, PA. Her poems have appeared in print in, among others Boulevard, Mid-American Review, Southern Humanities Review and Iron Horse Literary Review. Online her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Small Spiral Notebook, Three Candles, Word Riot, For Poetry, and Xaxx. By Miriam N. Kotzin
Published on 07/16/2004
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,
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,
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.
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.