OLD STRANGER

When my lost carbon steel

knife turned up as if

it had never left the drawer––

dark haft, trio of nickel silver

rivets like moons of Pluto,

thin blade stained as before––

I breathed, spoke to the empty room,

reached for the old stranger. Touched

its whetted edge. Alive, it could

change tomatoes to glistening

discs, basil to little hills, draw

blood from meat. It raked

joy onto my plate while the gauze

that wrapped my cut, reddened.

From Old Stranger: Poems, Alice James Books, copyright © 2024 by Joan Larkin



Joan Larkin’s newest book, Old Stranger, is her sixth collection of poems. Previous titles include My Body: New and Selected Poems, winner of the Publishing Triangle’s Audre Lorde award. A lifelong teacher and poet, she has recently begun publishing short fiction.