edges

Peter Engen

am I enough

to carry our monsters from 

the pillow to the burn pile where

there’s a stump by the red barn that 

was used to butcher chickens but 

we don’t do that anymore because you 

started cutting yourself below the knee with 

a thin blade from a broken pencil sharpener and

it looked like a rake of slow paper cuts when 

you lifted your pant leg at the clinic while

the doctor spoke like a metronome about 

gathering things with sharp edges into a safe 

place until it felt like a screaming teakettle left 

too long on the stove and I

kept asking the invisible if I 

am strong enough to be the bear skin you need me to be 

am I thick enough to hold it all together and 

wrap myself fully around our hungry fears as 

the long grey face of winter pushes 

against the windows when 

you know

that I know

that we know

why there’s a pause between 

saying “I love you sweetheart” and “goodnight” now 

leaving our bedroom doors open just a bit to 

let a handful of light from the hallway plunge

into our shadows connecting 

my bed to 

yours

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