A sharp-edged paring knife

Left alone
with too much time on your hands
you cannot help yourself

but stumble
over one
or maybe more than one

of those rare moments
of piercing clarity
in which you see

perhaps
the
truth

and there before you
lies still
the carcase

of what might have been;
eviscerated,
filleted

using a sharp-edged paring
knife,
serrated for its ease of entry

and escape
but leaving
an open wound,

inevitable,
unavoidable
despite the best intention

of the cosmic surgeon
whose skill and scalpel
were insufficient for the task

so that there
before you
on a polished kitchen floor

love lies bleeding
where once upon a time
in that land

far, far away
you watched a young woman,
her long brown hair

tumbling
over a blood red dress,
bathed in bronze and copper tones

of Autumn’s sunset
fading,
slice a lemon.