By Janine Certo

A martini olive stick to remove
batteries. Shears to open packaged
chicken breasts, trim daisies,
dahlias, a rosemary sprig. No
extension cord for the unruly
front hedges. No Fiskars for the blade of
grass. A garden chair’s a stepladder.
Higher chair, a three-rung stepladder.
In the apartment of my twenties, people
joked I owned only a dull, single
knife to chop garlic, open envelopes, halve
large muffins. A coffee mug for a hammer.
Mostly, I try to do things right. Sometimes,
no tool at all. One eye’s a leveler. Nix that
orbital sander. A fingernail’s a screwdriver. Two will
pull splinters. What’s stashed in the basement isn’t
quicker. A leaf blower sounds in the distance, while this
rake becomes broom because it’s closer. Sloppy, you
say? Swat the fly with a novel. Here’s a story, kind,
true: a man once gave me a toolkit. He didn’t know. No
usual pegboard in my garage: DIY drills,
V-clamps, voltage testers, mallet, shovel, socket
wrenches. After my break-up text, I shuddered when he said I
carved out his heart with a rusty spoon.

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Janine Certo is the author of four full-length poetry collections: Becoming Eve (forthcoming, Bordighera Press); O Body of Bliss, winner of the Longleaf Poetry Prize (2023); Elixir, winner of both the New American Poetry Prize and the Lauria/Frasca Poetry Prize (New American Press and Bordighera Press, 2021); and In the Corner of the Living, runner-up for the Main Street Rag Poetry Book Award (2017). She is an associate professor at Michigan State University