how would you feel
if you knew
I take all the best pieces of you
and put them into
tiny frames
they aren’t always perfect
sometimes the edges
don’t fit
they reach out
all excess
so I trim them
with the poultry scissors
beside the kitchen sink
ignoring the wrinkles
behind the cheap glass
the extra
falls
down
the garbage
disposal
I turn it on
crank the water
listen to the
blending of
foreign objects
“that doesn’t belong in there”
you’d tell me
but you’re outside
clearing the snow
from the driveway
I excavate some pushpins
from the junk drawer
I scatter them like
playing darts
across the living room wall
you’re back inside
the cold sticks to your skin
and I am standing
hands on hips
admiring my handiwork
“this one’s crooked” you say
pushing upwards on one frame
with a gloved index finger
I smile and thank you
I put a finger to my lips
you are on the couch now
silent,
gloves still on
watching me move my hands
watching me tip each frame
I stand back,
you laugh,
“that’s more like it” you say
“that’s it” I say, smiling
“bad parts and all”.
Nicole Marie