I want you to cut me. Not with a big heavy broad chef’s knife, or the dagger looking so beautiful and mean, but the small thin, delicate one. The one that separates clouds from the sky, kittens from their window perches, and little girls holding flowers from the meadow behind, I want the knife that can free anything at all from it’s steadily monotonizing environment, allowing new context in our rearrangement.
Photo by David Aquilina
If you trace lines along the sides of my body that will fit perfectly in a cage, I am yours forever skulking around between these bars. Should you shape me into a flying monkey’s form, I’ll fetch your broom and wait silent for your next move. If I’m to be a battleground, I wait for soldiers to nestle themselves into my curves at night and dream of safety blanketed by my scent. And if I am me, walking on the ocean’s surface toward the dawn, I’ll feel your hands and warm breath at my back.
I want you to cut me. Shape me into pieces and scenes that are surprising and delight. I’ll be your monster, your favorite shirt, your washer woman, your mechanic, your blanket, your paper, and your pet.
To Breath and Being,
~ Karin
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~Thank you.
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