[Max Goodman]

The Surgery

He stares into the blade and knows the world.
Above, lights buzz. Grip loosening already,
his fist falls to the kitchen cutting board.
He won’t perform this surgery. Not ever—
another reason to disdain the smudge
mirrored so sharply in the unclean blade.

A good world wouldn’t know of suicide.
To live would be the act, the world renewed
each day, each breath. Or not. In such a world,
unbeing natural, there’d be no need
of knives or any gesture that his sons
might feel the sharp point of. He would be gone
from that more friendly world. But here he stands,
regarding flatly his unclean reflection,
the hurt he’s done, which can’t be cut away.

*
previously posted draft:

He stares into the blade and knows the world.
He won’t perform this surgery. Not ever—
another reason to disdain the smudge
mirrored so sharply in the unclean blade.
The cutting board vibrates against the counter.

A good world wouldn’t know of suicide.
To live would be the act, the world renewed
each day, each breath. Or not. In such a world,
unbeing natural, there’d be no need
of knives or any gesture that his sons,
his wife, or anyone he’s loved might feel
the sharp point of. By now he would be gone
from that more friendly world. But here he stands,
one dank, unsteady hand in dinner’s gore,
regarding flatly his unclean reflection,
the hurt he’s done, which can’t be cut away.

*

The cutting board vibrates against the counter.
He stares into the blade and knows the world.
He won’t perform this surgery. Not ever—
another reason to disdain the smudge
mirrored so sharply in the unclean blade.
A good world wouldn’t know of suicide.
To live would be the act, the world renewed
each day, each breath. Or not. In such a world,
unbeing natural, there’d be no need
of knives or any gesture that his sons,
his wife, or anyone he’s loved might feel
the sharp point of. By now he would be gone
from that more friendly world. But here he stands,
one dank, unsteady hand in dinner's gore,
regarding flatly his unclean reflection,
the hurt he’s done, which can’t be cut away.

*

first posted draft:

He stares into the blade and knows the world.
He won’t perform this surgery. Not ever—
another reason to disdain the smudge
mirrored so sharply in the unclean blade.
A good world wouldn’t breed a word for suicide.
To live would be the act, the choice. Renewed
each day, each breath. Or not. In such a world,
unbeing natural, there’d be no need
of knives or any gesture that his sons,
might feel the sharp point of. He’d now be gone
from that more friendly world. But here he stands
considering his own unclean reflection,
the hurt he’s done, which can’t be cut away.