Born as we are
with this arsenal

of daily annoyances—
the boyfriend

who tosses paper towels
in the sink, a mother

who texts three times
in one day:

You sure you aren’t
mad at me?

How soon after we slip
into the salt

water of each new day
do we shake these sheaths

from our shoulders?
I drag a serrated awareness

across every surface,
desperate to cut

into whatever might be
underneath. I answer texts.

Punctuated. With. I’m.
So. Frickin’. Pissed.

Leave a coffee stain
I didn’t make on the floor

for weeks to prove
a point. Sometimes

I grieve the goodness
I gave up to be more

fully here. Perhaps Jesus,
after he gave up his life

as a carpenter, dropped
his tools into the sea and

that is how these strange
creatures came to be—

the splash of a sword
slicing into what

can’t be parted
or torn.

---

Lexi Pelle was the winner of the 2022 Jack McCarthy Book Prize. Her work has appeared in Rattle, Ninth Letter, SWWIM, and The Shore. She is the author of the poetry collection, Let Go With The Lights On (Write Bloody Publishing, 2023). More at: www.lexipelle.org.

---