Issue 49.3
Ben Kline

Inventory of Blades

Pocket knife proof the holler and the trailer prepare you better than the cul-de-sac the nail nick told the truth none of my brother’s girlfriends could open his most of the men under the creek bridge struggled dirty nails chewed nails booze nails I kept my winter one in my sock, summer in my waistband too many hands found their way into my pockets a few found themselves lifting it from the grass around an oak two found it letting their air out Scissors the kitchen pair, meant for rhubarb stalks, chard and cabbage the drawer pair for paper and plastics I couldn’t cut straight to be straight, the sharp edge must know where it’s going I knew where I was going; my nickname was Ditch my pair, meant to hold open necks Paring set with a sheering side, I cut my own hair Mom said I cut the carrots too thick Switchblade my beloved my left wrist a little stiffer than my right I used on lovers the right I mean my trust if a man shines at you like that in the dark, run run knees high every twig is a trap at night Serrated long blade 7 is never enough for the hungry the hungry tend to like a little teeth alone too long with hunger, they scratch the walls in their sleep Hatchet my granny said it was for small branches, shrubs, close work after I worked on her roses, she called me brute she meant my tongue she saw my strength (but) she had no idea where my forearms had been where any man asunder could be Machete I preferred the smack of the flat side, an imitation of risk my brother’s eventual wife didn’t understand how he used his machete on my toe over our mother’s shoes she (mother) beat me she’s dead now and the memory becomes a story a little funnier, rolling down the hill extra blood, keep saying spurt and sss sss I preferred the original version best mortal wound, mortal sin, I can’t exaggerate a better one (but) I understand the telling is the joy in the sadness, it’s just blood in the grass and ruin the devil calls me (Ruin) out of my name Axe my dad didn’t like my swing right-handed center strikes (but) I learned left he didn’t know why the callouses needed to be there to please (them) ((and me)) Scythe autumnal curve, a reverse parabola up toward the g the god oh god yes god anyone who sees it will lie anyone who says they don’t see it has lied I lied to please Sharpener I lick the point from which I spit sparks boil every toiled word every rub and strikes a pressure to lie still, I pretend I am brute can climb from the ditch during a downpour every lick eroding me on my curve, some far tributary still, I taste what I shouldn’t the dirt I make mud how flaccid flesh gives until it doesn’t
Ben Kline lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. A poet, information professional, Madonna mega-fan slash podcaster, and one of the team behind the University of Cincinnati Libraries POETRY STACKED series, Ben cohosts the MLVC Podcast and is the author of Twang (ELJ Editions), Stiff Wrist (fourteen poems), and the 2026 Lambda Literary Award-winning collection It Was Never Supposed to Be (Variant Literature). His work has also appeared in Copper Nickel, Florida Review, Palette Poetry, Hayden’s Ferry Review, DIAGRAM and other publications.