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The Widdler


A knife lie in her bed, her hand rests atop the hilt.

The satin maple bed frame lie bare beneath her fingers,

And the aliferous knife lie skin warm in the cradle of her hand.

A pile of gossamer shavings grow on her sheets,

Surrounded by splinters near her pillow-
concealed by soft down.

She awaits the conception of a fish,
Sat in the pillar of her crib.

She pictures she’s an old wiseman, with an Appalachian drawl 
Widdleing on his back porch- rocking on a pine chair 

The bones of her fish turn crimson-
A red herring 
The laceration in her thumb lolls a bright serum

She was stopped by worry, but then she recalled-
That’s what the knife was for anyways 

Copyright © Natalie Johnson | Year Posted 2025

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Book: Reflection on the Important Things