Back to Issue Fourteen.

how we go on coveting the knife

BY TREVOR KETNER

 

When you told me about swimming at night
           I thought of your naked body
covered carefully or not covered in moonwater,

           how little I know about your body.
           The dark flowers, ripples parting

from white shoulders, parentheses around you
           diving down and deeper down
to the dark in dark. It was three AM. I’d slept.

           And turning, I still missed you
           in the way we miss the disembodied.

I don’t understand how I ought to love you,
           so we talked silverware, arched
arrangement, position—as if the body

           were only an old spoon. A ladle.
           Silver heirloom bestowed

           but bloody. To hunt – to cut the stag
open, to wear the color hidden there like rouge. 



Ketner 14

Trevor Ketner is an MFA candidate in poetry at the University of Minnesota. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Pleiades, The Offing, The Rumpus, cream city review, The Journal, Hayden's Ferry Review: The Dock and elsewhere. Recently he received the 2014 Gesell Award in Poetry and was selected by Tracy K. Smith for inclusion in Best New Poets 2015.

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