Running with Broken Glass
As if the thing seen in the mirror were so painful
That we toss a brick of denial and shatter it.
Some of us later pick up a few pieces of the glass
Just to carry, we are not sure why,
Wrapped and tucked where the edges won’t cut us.
Then, odd magic, a critical mass of hurt
Conjured and convoked at Amanda’s place.
The invitation works, its safe there.
And perhaps with a tear or a sigh lay our piece
On the page one image appears in the puzzled bits
On the back of that image, a strength, an ownership
For the last two days, Amanda has managed to uncork a bitter vintage that few of us would show even if we helped crush the grapes. It strikes me there is some healing there.