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.