This morning I tried to hold it all in a paper sack—the glass jar I drink
water from, a “breakfast-to-go” smoothie, day old kale slaw that I purchased aware
of its wilt—and when it slipped out of my hands and shattered on the parking garage concrete
I had to repeat three times: Don’t believe the image. Don’t believe the image.
Don’t believe the image. It’s a poet’s works to know that on my knees, collecting
the pieces of glass and ripped brown paper that I may read as a|lone
woman exceeding her capacity. It’s a woman’s work to persuade myself otherwise.