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.
I am out at night because I can’t stand myself.
People are milling on the street. Nobody looks at me. They all look at each other as they pass, and the lights decorate their faces to be tall and luminous.
William doesn’t talk to us anymore.
He left us in the closet when he moved out of the house.
Time tears at our gentle fabric skin.
William won’t let us go in his head.
It is midnight and I am getting a haircut on the lawn.
I am tired, but I shiver with excitement.
Gentle hands tug and snip at my curls,
And as they fall they take root in the grass.
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