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.
Rosefire Rising 