It’s funny what you don’t recall

poem by Stephanie Airth

when a friend points a knife
that bites at you both and seems made of light when
it shines in the (dark bright burn orange soft white
streetlamp, she
steps in front of (him the knife his face past describing

her heart is
six shriveled seeds within a winter orange,
she is unkillable,
untouchable beneath easy-peel skin,
does not hear the irony when treadwell says
(“you will die here you will die here you will fucking die here
scene of his death directly behind

when they change the bulb in the spring
the gradient is not the same