Grinding Down the Roughness

The skin on my palms has gone thick as a hide

from lifting the crates at the back of the store.

I stand in the pharmacy, looking inside

for a way to be soft like I was once before.

I pick up the pumice, a chunk of a moon,

light as a secret and rough as a tongue.

I could scrub at the callus all afternoon

until the gray dust in the air hits my lung.

It’s a strange way to heal, using stone against grit,

to sand off the armor that the working day made.

I leave a fine powder in the sink when I’m quit,

watching the hard parts of me finally fade.