Like that knife she wanted as a child,
a folding blade and a beautiful red handle,
with her name engraved. It has traveled the years
chasing her in dreams: narrow beechwood arrows
or animal figures whittled out of walnut,
the grain of old cedar, the blood of a prime body.
Now older, she whets the blade, gained from the unforgotten,
to chop down the weeds that choke her memories.

Translated into English by D. Sam Abrams