My house is full of knives.
Sharp blades wait to ambush me
in drawers. I get sleepy from their cuts.
My onion finger peels back layers,
reveals the blood and guts of me.
Sometimes the trap is on the stairs,
a lost left shoe discarded there
hides like a snare to trip me up.

There’s danger in domestic things
such as you would never dream.
Light falling at an awkward angle
can splinter air
like discordant voices.
My head becomes
the tumble dryer’s cycle,
round and round it goes.