Edge

It might be silk, or it might be blood,
a ribbon that runs from throat to belly,
a hint to your hidden past; and it may be
a painting or it may be a window, a face
pressed fast at the edge of your day.

And something’s fumbled in a stranger’s hands,
a purse or a knife, you can’t be sure, but
there’s something in the movement that stops
you short, makes you see for the first time
the space you occupy, your uncomfortable frame.

And it might be wood, or it might be stone,
a hard edge that holds you, safe or trapped,
a tipping point of view; and it may be
a mirror or it may be a mistake, hands
opening, letting you go.