Walking at Night After a Death Threat

The lights on either side of the road are neither
a comfort nor a cause for fear, and the same could
be said of the darkness, which does not dishearten
nor console. The firmness of the pavement, a deeper
black than the night's, solaces more than the noise
of cars passing on the highway running parallel
to this by-street, more seductive than the saloon
across the field of desert, with its allure of alcoholic
oblivion, the chance exchange of strange flesh.

I grip the knife in my palm, its blade buried still
in the handle, the edge dull but its acute point
able to stick in the offending bone. I walk briskly
but do not hurry, the tip of my cigarette a beacon
I choose not to hide behind my hand, affecting
an honorable courage. Were I an animal I would
sniff the temperate air, hackles at stiff attention.

Suddenly it occurs to me that I am an animal,
that liberal fictions dissipate utterly: that blood
can spill as well as run hot with sudden malice
and bring the blind black temper of a killer.
The term self-defense becomes ambiguous,
and platitudes that are blatantly obvious
at the breakfast table, swaddled in light
and the pacifying murmur of television -
 I will not instigate violence; I am a man
of peace - these truths lose luster in the dark
moment of fear, the precise, chilling exposure.

This is the realization of bone and sinew,
when the immanence of death is brought round
as real as the flashing edge of your knife
as it stands in front of you, its curling finger
come-hithering. And you say then I'm coming,
You bastard, here I come. And you do.


early 1990s