Illustration by Carabella Sands

 

If I Broke It

 

If my mind didn’t sail

immediately past release

to aftermath (the tedium

of necessity, the sliver I miss

stuck in the dog’s bloody paw,

startled neighbor pounding

at the wall)—

 

if I, taut with rage,

my pruning fingers clutched

at the dripping lip of the plate

I’d like to fling

(in wanting I hear the thud chased

by the tinkle of shards

on tile, lit by sun

poured warm over the fracture)—

if I hurled the thing,

if I broke it, I’d be

some other shiny me.

 

I scrub the plate.

I dry it with a clean towel.

I set it in the cabinet.

I shut the cabinet door

quietly. I churn.

 

In response to St. America Go Out and Have Fun, Carabella Sands