Edges

When I slipped and shattered
four bottles of beer in my backpack,
I spent minutes on 
each fragment –
reaching in, drawing back,
trying another angle, to
pick it clean
without breaking my skin.
 
Even the smooth surfaces
were deceptive, so half an hour later,
I had half a bag of glass and
a hundred tiny cuts.

When you show me
your edges,
I reach in and
draw back,
looking for a
safe spot to approach.

Even your
smooth surfaces are deceptive.

I cursed louder at my last
paper cut, at the glass in my
backpack, than the time I
grazed my leg with a
chainsaw.

It makes me wish
I could
shred myself,
cathartic sawdust
flying and spattering walls.

It makes me wish
you had spinning blades
instead of jagged edges
that leave
one nick at a time.

© Sarah Stringer