David's Blade

Maria Terrone
May 14, 2014
Maria Terrone


The fake gold razor blade

you wore around your neck

stopped me cold today,

as I sifted through my jewelry clutter.


I still can’t bring myself to watch

“Philadelphia,” knowing you

were an extra who didn’t need direction

to play a dying man.


In the office, when you admired

my thick chain bracelet, I handed it over

for your gold-tone bauble.

The blade was a joke, of course, accessory

to jeans and gym-pumped muscles,

our impromptu “West Side Story” duets,

“We’re gonna rumble

tonight!” in the magazine’s hall.


I understood everything the weekend

I encountered you at a Bette Davis

feature. Eyes lowered, you mumbled,

not introducing your boyfriend.

He could have been your twin,

but I doubt he could quote

Lord Byron or recite the names

of every pope since 1500. I loved you.


For years after you left New York,

I’d think I saw you, always turning the corner.

Now you’ve returned in online obits,

glimpses of your life from that ravaged time,

and a dull mix of fingerprints

that clings to our razor blade.




Maria Terrone is the author of three poetry collections, Eye to Eye, published by Bordighera Press in May 2014, A Secret Room in Fall and The Bodies We Were Loaned, as well as a chapbook, American Gothic, Take 2.