Throwing Knives

On the polar of distance to target, I look down.
I see the ancient pattern from a single seed.
The centuries’ unchanged weak link
is soft blue lines, crooked, connecting and diverging.
I see the bridge that spans by breaking.

I think of his scars and I cannot now
say ‘Jesus’ the way adults say it to children.
I cannot now ignore that the hand of life
held him and would not give him up
until he pried each finger loose.

Thumb clasps the black blade to palm.
The point at its base is sharp longing.
I hold it straight, reach behind, and throw my pursuit
but the knife has married my tendons
so I receive at the distance from me to wood
a single cleaving plunge.
And the handle shutters into my feeling.