Missus Bee

by Bohdan Sirant, 2013 (dedicated to the late Roman Bylo) Theres a beautiful knife An old Bowie knife That I keep In my bedside drawer And pull out To contemplate and Meditate upon Every night Just before I say my prayers And fall deep asleep And dream sweat dreams Shes not an Iron Mistress But more of a Steel Missus My Damascened Dame My Buxom Bowie Babe My gilded and blued wife Shes a knife with Many a strange story Some sentimental Some sensational Some spooky and scary I have used her For many years Decades in fact On hunting and fishing trips And in my travels Including some abroad Shes been my pal My favorite gal And trusted companion She has often Come in handy From splitting wood And sparking fires And pealing an onion Whittling a baton Slaying a python And cutting through wires Vines and pines Tangles and briars In wary circumventions To offering protection

From two-legged predators on Opportunistic excursions From ursine incursions On camping diversions And in clandestine operations And penetrations In foreign insurrections And military interventions She has been my lucky charm And faithful sidearm In all kinds of exotic places And Godforsaken spaces In Algonquin Old Saigon Dawson On the river Yukon The eternal Amazon In the Grand Canyon The Yucatan The Sudan Rajasthan Bataan Bhutan Kazakhstan In Samarkand The Hindu Kush The Northern bush On an Arctic mush On the Steppe flush In jungles lush In the deserts hush The urban rush and Commuting crush In palaces plush In rain or snow Sun, hail or slush Be it dry or sandy Or over waters Sweet or salty Its a nightly ritual To take her out of the drawer And ponder the memories She invokes Each scratch and stain On her tooled and fringed sheath And each nick on her clipped blade

And patinated buff handle Remind me of one event or another Some very pleasant and some Just the opposite My uncle gave her to me Oh, when I was about sixteen I guess So long ago My time will soon be up and I want you to have her As a keepsake from me My uncle, Steve, got her From his uncle And gave her to me And now I give her to you And someday you may Give her to your nephew too Steves uncle made this knife See, those are his initials SWO Stamped on the ricasso Shes a Bowie With many a secret tale to tell Some about living heaven Some about living hell Some funny Some creepy Some happy Some gory Some of infamy Some sad Some bad Some of glory Her names Missus Bee And shes a real honey A faithful knife Like a loyal wife On whom you can Bet your sorry life There for you When strife is rife With a deadly stinger And a finger ring On which to sling her Like a wedding band To stay secure

In a busy, unclutched hand Or when things are going bust And you buckle for your dust Shes been good to me And if you take care of her Shell be good to you Look here, theres a motto Etched on each side Vae Victis on the obverse Know what that means? Its Latin for Woe to the vanquished! And on the reverse Cita mors ruit meaning Death is a swift rider! Shes a beaut, aint she? Look at that handle Thats real ivory Real walrus tusk And polar bear bone And the guard is Nickel silver As is the bolster and look at that pommel --Its a polar bears head! And that hoary steel is Damascus steel She was forged from An old lumberjacks saw And marine cable wire See the hammer pits? And faint banding And mottling And grain like marble Or igneous rock Like ink-stained oak Or weathered cedar Or flowing water? Now look at that blades edge And the fine bevel And the spines swedge Sharp, see? And the clip point And her perfectly fitted Guard to blade joint Shes well-made, boy

Shes some dame Shes got the curves If youve got the nerves Shell give you confidence And that makes a difference Going into combat Now how about that? Shes sharp, flexible Born with verve Been baptized by fire And keen to serve Quenched hard Well-tempered And tough Holds a razors edge Pries like a wedge And hits hard like a sledge Even when the goings rough The same way you ought to be When you grow up Rough and tough In the bush and In the buff And sharp and keen Hard, resilient and lean Like her But never dull And never mean Keep her dry and oiled And keep her clean, Or shell rust And keep her razor sharp Use this here cutlers stone Draw her along like so At this angle, see? Twenty-two and a half degrees! Half of forty-five And then the other way Back and forth To and fro Always at the magic angle Dont let her sway And then strop her on this old belt Back and forth To and fro A dozen times or so

So shes nicely honed It takes practice To get it right And the first time She needs sharpening Ask your dad to show you He knows how And learn how to use her Till its second nature But dont abuse her Shes sure to come in handy At the worst times Remember, boy Death likes to pounce and Take you unawares and Trouble comes skulking around Unannounced So keep her near On your belt Or on your person And keep her dear Shes the most important item Of all your gear Shes dependable And quiet The way a gun cant be Shes always loaded and Never runs out She wont misfire Shes a real fighter So learn to use her in a fight See, this is how you grip her Tight, boy, tight This is your stance This is how you thrust, slash, backslash, slap, stab, and parry He was like a silver whirlwind And moved like A glossy, shimmering panther Around me The patterned blade flashing, Spinning and twisting Bobbing and dipping Turning one way and then another Slashing in all manner of angles

The way years of practice Made seem easy Never stay still and Keep her moving, boy In unexpected ways And feint, like this And this, and this Now you try it I picked her up And felt her weight Heavier than I thought She would be She felt good in my hand Suiting me to a tee Go ahead and try Some of those moves I showed you Ill stand clear Dont worry about me And I did As if in a tribal dance Bewitched and spellbound In a shamans trance Moving with her In fluid motion Not repeated But left to chance Thats it boy, Keep moving This way and That way, see? And be unpredictable Now give her to me And watch me Go through this routine He then slashed And back-slashed And thrust And stabbed In wide lightning-fast sweeps Jabs and arcs Through all the angles And hours of the clock One oclock! Two oclock! Three oclock!

And so on he Yelling out until He worked his way up to 12oclock And finished the loop Now thats a good way to work Up a sweat! Im pooped Hey I need a smoke Heres some money Go to the corner store And buy us A couple of cokes And off I went But when I returned He was gone And gone for good That was the last time I ever saw him But she was still there Lying on the table In her burnished fringed sheath In her brass-studded leather gown Tanned, crazed and patinated I am grateful for her For all these fifty or more years of companionship But now my number is coming up And it is my turn to pass her on And today Ill give Missus Bee To my niece Who I hope will cherish her The way I have