Every movement a cut.

When we use the wooden swords,
sometimes I wonder if they are still alive
in some way. Does the heat of our hands
waken something in the dead material?
They dry, quiescent in their racks, freed
from any aroma of trees but still rich in red
brown golden color. But in our hands, they
sing as they part the air, and snarl in voices
of boughs breaking when they clash. Dead,
and alive.

But there should be no clash, he instructs.
It would ruin the edge. Every cut, every
thrust, every parry passing each other with a
whisper and a caress. In dilated time, the
dead wood becomes part of a living limb,
and strikes.

A stick in the shape of a sword has no real
edge, though. It is no razor, but a bludgeon.
Why not let it impact heavily,
use what weight it has? It is no blade.
Regardless, he says, slipping my parry and
placing the living wood, gently, against my
deadened throat -
Every movement a cut.