Ode to Scissors

A pair of old jeans — I amputate both legs with a pair of scissors.

I’ve cut myself on paper, on grass blades, even on certain sharp words, but never with scissors.

One on a shelf in the basement beside the string, another with the craft paper, & a third nestled in the sewing cabinet among spools of thread: We are rich. We have three pairs of scissors.

Every schoolkid grasps the concept of a balance of powers thanks to fist rock, palm paper, & peace-sign scissors.

Mothers worry about leaving their children unattended with a left-handed pair of scissors.

The raccoon going through the new trash on the riverbank is delighted to find a shiny orphaned half of a pair of scissors.

When I come into school wearing glasses for the first time, the other kids show me what I look like by peering through the handles of their scissors.

I’m walking as quickly as I can, stiff-legged, mindful of the scissors.