Sparks
I want a knife sharpener like the old man had,
the one with a wispy beard who used to appear on the sidewalk
in front of our house in 1944. My mother would scurry
into the kitchen and bring out her two carbon steel knives.
The old man pedaled to spin the honing wheel so fast
that when he laid the edge of the knife against it,
sparks flew.
I want a knife sharpener like the fat man had,
who worked in a closet-sized shop near where I lived
in 1988. I want to take my stainless
steel knives there and watch him and his wife
squeezing around each other in their tiny space,
sparks flying.
I want my own knife sharpener, one that’s better
than those I bought—the first one, the second one,
the one recommended by Consumer Reports.
I want to cut cleanly, swiftly, efficiently
with my 14-inch stainless steel carving knife—
rising seas, scalding sun, fundamentalists,
crooked politicians, gullible fools, everything
that needs cutting. I want
sparks to fly.
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Under the Wind
What color is the sky when no one looks?
The color of breath, the color of air.
Who can drink of the honey of the desert?
Only the mountains that rise in the east.
Do you know why the grass?
The grass cannot use its tongue.
The violin, to whom does it sing?
It does not sing to the unaware.
What sound is most like an anxious day?
The sound that holds back and says nothing.
What do the hands of the mind spell?
The days of living, the days of death.
Why does discord stick in the throat?
The salt of living must be free.
Does the sun rise when you’re dead?
Only after you’ve been forgotten.
Do fish cry?
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Ruth Bavetta’s poems have appeared in North American Review, Nimrod, Rattle, Slant, American Journal of Poetry, Atlanta Review, Tar River Poetry, and many other journals and anthologies. Her Selected Poems is forthcoming/ Her fifth book, What’s Left Over, won the FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize for 2022. She likes the light on November afternoons, the music of Stravinsky, the smell of the ocean. She hates pretense, fundamentalism and sauerkraut.
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Stone Poetry Quarterly 