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
