Glass Jars and Vases.

Once you’re broken,
you’re never whole again.
I once saw broken vases,
shattered glass jars,
I tended to them,
patched them up,
meticulously and with precision,
as if I had just made them travel back in time,
kept them on the living room table,
decorated the vases with tulips,
and filled the jars with water,
But on days the flowers are too heavy to hold on,
on the days the water is full to the brim,
I see cracks and deformed contours and tectonic plates and jigsaw puzzles,
I avert my eyes, I hide in my sofa, I scamper to the bathroom,
but I cannot run,
I’ve these cracks all over my fingers and arms and lungs
and vertebrae and feet and heart,
Some along where her skin used to brush against mine,
some along tired, young feet,
some along a backbone upright in the turmoil,
some which make me gasp for air, and some
which make my heart skip more than just a beat,
and on these days, I realize, how irreplaceable grief is,
and how irreparable the jars and vases,
But I do it all the same,
I shift the tectonic plates of my life around,
I solve the puzzles,
I water the tulips,
After a night when I’m leaking out of myself,
I’m back at it again,
with the tape and glue and patches
and I’m fixed up real good once more.


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