Steel Wool from Steel Sheep
by Jenny M. Liu
How the sparks flew as shearers cut.
How the sheep gleamed so cleanly sleek.
How their trusting silver eyes blinked, baby calm.
How it all ends up stuck in a corner eventually.
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How it gets to you.
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Imagine a simple locker room, the guided meditation:
Take a tight ball from the basket (in the corner). Take off your sweat-soaked clothes. You’ve worked hard, so please extract the salt now into a shot glass. You will need it later. Electrolytes are always needed. Face yourself and note the nooks and crannies. Do not neglect to trace a finger down the bridge of your nose. The bridge connects you to childhood and the center of your malaise.
Don’t scoff.
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The sheep are your best friends, and you will never understand the texture of that ball nor how it came to be. Not even when you unravel it and see each strand and hold it up to the light to see how it shines under this horrible white glare. You get a bright idea, wind a strand between your fingers and try it as floss, digging a C down into the gums. Getting into the biofilm, getting into where your wisdom (teeth) were stolen and looking for them anyway. Looking harder and harder and harder just to grin a bloody grin when you finally get that confirmation, that lack, and triumphantly spit into your palms to keep the simple oath of trying.
You don’t understand, but you know the jaw sounds gritty and you know the stage before tears for real is when it’s best to stop. There will be more wool soon, metal in the morning.
You remember the salt and swish it with a little clean spit to soothe your wounds.
Everything’s fine. Hit the showers. You did great.
Jenny M. Liu is a writer and occasional poet from southern Nevada. Her work was selected for Best Microfiction in 2025 and has been published by Strange Horizons, Paranoid Tree, and JMWW, among others. Find her at https://jennymliu.carrd.co/ or @jennymliu on Bluesky and Instagram.
