Hardened

I tried to peel the label off

a pickle jar this afternoon.

My finger didn't feel the glass,

a numb and yellow, deadened moon.

It’s where I’ve gripped the ballpoint pen

for twenty years of making lists.

I touched a scarf in the fancy store

and felt the friction in my wrists.

Like rubbing sand against a sheet,

a rough and dry and papery sound.

I’m growing armor, bit by bit,

to keep from feeling too much ground.