The Jam

The wood catches halfway and bites

at my knuckles, a sudden hard stop.

I’m just trying to get to the caffeine,

to cut the plastic and breathe.

But the spatula has other ideas,

its silver handle angled up like a rib,

braced against the frame of the counter.

The more I pull, the tighter it holds.

I’ve been doing this all week.

Leaning my weight into things

that are already locked shut.