Going through my father’s
things. I’ve been asked:
what do I want? I try on rings,
turquoise, silver: all
too small. Watches —
he broke watches all the 
time and saved every one.
I want none of this, but
what of his old Buck folder,
lock and joint still tight, blade 
still sharp,
resting ready in 
his dresser drawer

in its wear-softened and molded 

black leather sheath?

I own a much newer one,
same model, with a sheath
as new as the blade; brown
not black, not yet worn in
to be anything other
than generic. He used to say 

no Apache man 
should ever be
without a knife. 
On rare occasions
he would ask 
to borrow mine;
if I happened 
to be
without one in reach, 

he’d shake his head. 
Times have changed and while
I am rarely knife-free
I have changed, no longer do I
wear one openly on my hip for swagger
and ease of use. I take the knife,
postponing the decision
of what I should do next:
wear his, wear mine out 
loud and proud
until my leather 
looks like his, or
put both away because
he no longer should have any say
as to what kind of man I am?