Scissors
Location
Seventh grade—a history simulation:
Cut as many cars out as possible, must meet Mother Russia’s quota
In a frenzy, I end up slicing myself, a few drops fall on the paper, scarlet on white
Recklessly staining the snow, I retreat down a red path.
My supply sabotaged, I didn’t meet daily quota,
A too-real lesson on Soviet conditions.
A pair of scissors placed in my hands.
The pre-K style, edges round, set aside for snowflake chains.
Color inside the lines, cut on the line
Static, precise, no room for deviation.
Now, I’m allowed the sharp ones
To hatch a collage, to patch a tear.
Two fingers in the one thumb hole and one thumb in the two-finger hole.
But it’s simple—color inside the lines, cut on the line
Quota met, collage composed, poem finished—does it matter how?