[James Brancheau]

I like the potential of the original, Jim. My impression is that this might work better as a shorter slice of life poem that’s better left a bit more open to interpretation. But that might still hint of future danger/trouble. The below is not so much a suggested revision as it is how I’m seeing the poem right now. And hopefully that will be helpful in some way. But, in any case, my apologies for tinkering with it. Cheers.

Her Jam

I told her again: Don’t lick the knife.
But I’m always too late.
“Too late!” she sings, snaking her tongue
to the smear on her chin.
“One of these days,” I warn, “you’ll taste blood.”
She gives it one last swipe,
slow and theatrical, and shrugs. Like nothing

she tosses the blade in the sink,
wipes her mouth with the back of her hand,
and puckers, ever so sad and sweetly,
“We’re out of my jam. Can you pick up some?”