The Shears

The onion skin is papery and thin,

sticking to the blade of the paring knife.

The steel slipped, just a fraction of an inch,

and tapped the white ridge on my thumb.

It didn't draw blood, but the memory

woke up under the skin.

The shears were heavy, rusted shut with sap,

sitting in the dirt behind Grandma's shed.

I was seven, trying to be helpful,

prying the handles apart with both hands

until they snapped open and caught the meat.

Now it’s just a pale, jagged thread

that never tans, no matter how long I stay out.