• Now that I'm twenty,
    I beat pickle jars open with big knives.
    I slam slabs into their hats,
    and when they open,
    I'm happy.
    When I was little, my dad used pickles to let ME be the hero.
    When HE would try to open the jar,
    his veins would bulge out blue.
    But I would just smile
    and twist them off.

    And I believed him.

    When my parents fell out of love,
    my mom stopped buying those pickles,
    at least the ones I could slide open.
    Now I pound and beat pickles open.
    I see others beating their jars open.
    I miss twisting them off.
    My child will twist open our pickle jars,
    and the dents in their hats will never be seen.