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.