I’m the concrete your bare feet padded down
as I backed out of your driveway.
I’m every grenade ever rolled at you
that never exploded,
never penetrated—a dud, each
and every one.
I’m the heart you took
from the room and left
outside on the back porch, picked
over by birds and ants.
I’m the blade of grass you tore between
two knuckles and wiped on your pants.