On Broken Glass

So many kinds of shattering.
The glass dropped in the bathroom lives

on forever in the barefoot
heel. The long bone snaps in the toe;

the fingers (bone dented by knives);
the spine that dances and dissolves

pink and wet in my hands; the line
the spine followed now drawn in raw

edges. A tour guide to pain stands
in the middle of the gray street

as pieces of windows scatter
in slow motion, and then reform,

over and over again. We
watch, mesmerized, as flames flicker

in the glass before us, the glass
shards on the ground, fragments floating

back into place, outlined with gold,
an ephemeral kintsugi

where the lines show what is broken
and paint it over with fear, fire,

a whisper of belief, of love
happy without hope of wholeness.

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