I am no dull spoon.
The scissors were there when I woke.
I cut the white sheets to get out of bed.
I admire my edges. 
I wear a skirt.
I stab the sidewalk when I check the mailbox.
I pirouette on one point. 
My scissors glint in the sun.
They click together like castanets to create my cadence.
My scissors sing against the whetstone in the kitchen.
We snigger at the teaspoon on the counter that needs another for music.
We chop chicken bones and metal cans.
The little girl in the cart at the grocery stares.
She says that her scissors at school aren’t sharp like mine.
We say, just wait.