Crunched windshield from last February.
Glass was embedded in his hand from when the truck flipped.
They hit black ice on the road.
A woman comes to our school a year later
And I sit with him in the bleachers
As she tells us that she could bend down and pick up glass
From the crash site
Where they cut her son out of the molten car.
Broken glass angels pile up fast
On mantle pieces
And roadsides
And the tops of Christmas trees.
Some of ‘em don’t break all the way
But a chip stays missing.
The cardigan that my grandma wraps me in when I am cold;
Dusty piles of cards from someone who loves me;
Computer overheating with a two-thousand-million-word PDF scrapbook;
When I was a little younger than I am now,
I went home after school and wrote until bedtime.
That was enough to take me into the stratosphere.
I'd play in the cloud for hours and hours.
I will tell you what I remember from high school, and I will tell you how you can follow in my sinful and lowly footsteps, that your blood might be as holy as mine.
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