Mother’s Stapler
It sat on her desk
black as a snake, waiting.
It had a line at the hinge and padding on the bottom
gray as her hair.
Like fangs, the staples stood ready to bite into the collection of paper,
she stacked the papers just so; placed them on the silver foot pad.
The fangs descended and tried to capture the sheaf in its just-so-way
but the stapler caught her finger.
The blood sprang from the two tiny holes
with tears in her eyes, she pulled the staple from her finger.
I was sure that it hurt
she did not cry, just blotted the puncture holes with a tissue.
The coil reset, waited for another try
she re-stacked the papers, put them into the stapler’s maw.
Her last words described how she lived:
no more tears.
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summer 2020
