A Barlow Knife


at that time the knife he carried with him was a Barlow

she noticed it as they sat by some small unnamed body of water

he was making slices off the few good wild apples they’d found

she said oh a Barlow?  you have a Barlow knife?

my dad had one. he always had it with him. he used to let me use it.

sometimes we went fishing,

sometimes he let me cut up apples too.

when he died my brother got it.

that night he drove into town

went into the sporting goods shop

he picked out one for her

not exactly the same as his

not heavy and bone like her dads

but a ruby red

two good blades

trimmed by a bit of brass

it was the only thing he ever gave her

besides long deep kisses

slices of secret wild apples

spiced by an Indian summer

haunted by an early winter

 

 

 

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