Glenn Lyvers Poetry Site

Our shepherd cocked his ears and throated
a soft growl before the knocking stopped.
It was a stranger
in big city clothes with a card in his hand. I was invisible
on the banister behind the door, running
my fingers through the orange shag while my parents talked with him.
He was asking about the razors behind the house – the field was rotten
with them just beyond the shades. They had large bladed hands
perfect for silently cutting or jabbing. Like my parents,
behind the door, they might appear without warning
because I wandered too far or perhaps simply because I didn’t belong
in the spaces between the blades.