Scissors
Scissors
I try to follow
the model black lines.
I try to trace
their shape.
But what can I do
with my fingers tied,
roped together
like we’ve done
something wrong,
my acrobat hands
crammed into claws
that pinch and gnaw
the paper?
Everyone else
makes a smooth-edged
masterpiece.
All I get is a ruffled, crumpled mess.
© Elizabeth Steinglass, all rights reserved, 2015
I’ve learned to value a good pair of scissors, which these are not. But it’s a good poem!