fuck, my cry fills the living
room, shard of glass in the rug,
glare it down, rake my palms over
and over and over and
toss it into the trash to
die alongside a kleenex with
a single kiss of blood
the next morning there are
two, and then four, and
then i am piling them up, jagged
pieces on the countertop, wonder aloud
can i make a whole of all these
sharp edges?
realizations arrive like the weather
but my feelings are a climate shifting,
slow to act, slow to wrench these damn fists
apart, let go of the rhythm of
dying things, but
once the blood collides with white cotton
it will not go unremembered
no more sad poetry, i chide
these hands, and there i am,
rolling out the rug, musical clatter
of my broken edges spilling
across the cradling floor
michael king 