Soliloquy of the Abandoned
I am exposed, the knife said, lying in the road,
And it hurts to rust. I belong in the scabbard
Or I will lose my edge. I think of old days,
Warm days enclosed in the scabbard, ready
And protected, warm leather all around me,
Satisfactions of being slipped into a place
Shaped as I am, to receive. The scent,
The tidiness. Just by nestling I knew
The scabbard cared. If any two were meant
For each other, we were. How I recall
Nights of heavy use, when I was hacked
And smoking with blood – the relief of being
Returned where I belonged. Always, waiting.
No one else can know. No matter where
I was taken, I knew I’d be returned.
Everything in its place then. Nothing now.
Evil days have come and I do not know where
I am. No more the hand’s grip around my haft,
Gritty kiss of the whetstone, careful cloth.
The oil was best. I gleamed then, fresh, again
Young. Newly oiled, to slip into my oiled, sweet
Waiting place – is there any other happiness?
None now. I fear the hand that did all has fallen
And no other hand may come. I lie where I was
Flung. My whole length longs to be taken up,
Cleaned, ground, and returned to my familiar.
I fear another knife rests there now and we
Will never see each other more. We never spoke
Yet I know my scabbard was happy. How is it
Now? Empty, or does a scabbard’s happiness
Rest in being filled, no matter what blade?
— John Timpane
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