Cynthia Atkins

A bone to pick, I will probably trip over

the vacuum cord while rubber necking

the laundry basket. Maybe I’ll fall and glitch

my head on the crown molding— standing

on a wobbly stool looking for something

I was sure my boyfriend hid up there

in the attic depths—proof of an affair.

There’s a rope in the broom closet.

There’s a gun in the drawer.

I might choke on the red pepper

I just pulled from the ground.

I could light myself on fire with the endless

fodder of junk mail and all the wasted breath.

Breath, I only have this one life—

I could lose it just like that. Slip in the shower—

or on the ledge of my boyfriend’s window.

I might get bumped off by heartbreak.

Lies are sharp weapons. I will not die from lies.

I could cut my wrist with a utility knife.

Drop my hairdryer in the bubble bath.

(What the labels tell you not to do.)

But instead, I’ll slide down the banister,

and push every single button in the elevator.

Because every day, the brightest blue sky,

kills me with its resolute kindness.