My cable company robot delights
to invite me to Grit TV’s
car crashes, gun shots and explosions.
Being a robot, he doesn’t know
grit is clench and bear down,
for which women’s bodies are formed;
it goes with the backbone
our mothers teach us.
Grit is the sand that shapes our nails
and polishes calluses off our feet;
it’s what we vacuum
lest it etch the floors
with our comings and goings
carrying groceries, babies, sick dogs;
it’s the particles of years settled
into the armchairs where we
age, alone, while boys
play with explosives outside
believing they survive like robots.
Photo “sand.” by neonflashh modified and used under Creative Commons License (CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)
