question asked by Paul Lee  

A weapon is never far from the hand;
not one knife, discarded in a weedy wood,
or the other, poor evidence
of menace to a steak
but slippery with blood.

Reality keeps to a quiet corner:
long stretches of nothing
going on, then minor scuffles,
shuffling of achy feet.

Confession: I once thought violence
the lone authentic thing I ever did.

Come, shake my hand.
Prove no blade waits in it.
Feel my powerful softness 
wrapped around bone.

---

Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, most recently Escape Envy. His writing has appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Harvard Review, Mid-American Review, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes and tries to stay out of trouble. His seventh collection, Tell Us How to Live, is forthcoming in 2024 from Fernwood Press.