like swords to plowshares,
we no longer use these words
to cut.
our wits, sharpened
to peel back
layers
of self-harm.
onions making me tear up
without knowing why.
Amid these sandy seaside columns
I remove my hand
and with a look back
throw my lot in
as the land
furrows behind me
the saltiness
peppering my past
losing its flavor
working this potter’s field.