The Glass Hammer
My mother's knickknack crystal hammer
gleamed by her silver tray.
O pick me up and play with me,
I heard the hammer say.
I tapped it on the silver tray.
I tapped my sister's kitty.
“Put that thing down,” my mother yelled.
“It's not a damn play-pretty.”
Oh, I'm a hammer. Work with me,
the wicked hammer goaded.
I found a nail. I hit the nail.
The hammer, it exploded.
The doctors stitched my hands and face
and sewed up my right knee.
My mother gave me good advice.
The hammer lied to me.
The hammer said it was a tool,
although it couldn't hammer.
The better hammer was my mom,
who hammered me—goddamn'er.
From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 186, no. 4, July/August 2005. Used with permission.
gleamed by her silver tray.
O pick me up and play with me,
I heard the hammer say.
I tapped it on the silver tray.
I tapped my sister's kitty.
“Put that thing down,” my mother yelled.
“It's not a damn play-pretty.”
Oh, I'm a hammer. Work with me,
the wicked hammer goaded.
I found a nail. I hit the nail.
The hammer, it exploded.
The doctors stitched my hands and face
and sewed up my right knee.
My mother gave me good advice.
The hammer lied to me.
The hammer said it was a tool,
although it couldn't hammer.
The better hammer was my mom,
who hammered me—goddamn'er.
From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 186, no. 4, July/August 2005. Used with permission.
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