shatter

i.
this glass we’ve made i gather in a basket
you ask me to sand your fingerprints

here is the site of our accident
the ground of it looks wet and cuts
i fold away my letter

to sand your fingerprints from the glass we left
i smooth shard accidents into no more

glass catches light and makes the ground look wet
i take a step and it becomes

our ground becomes wet as it cuts my steps
my letter names into folds the sites to remove
to remove the letters from the page i take steps
making wet the ground that looked it

this glass we’ve made i gather in a basket
you ask me to catch the light and make nothing wet
nothing wet in the aftermath of fingerprints you ask
you ask me to sand your fingerprints from the glass we left

you ask me as if my feet are not bleeding

to sand your fingerprints from the glass we left
i smooth shard accidents into no more
than tender extended globes



ii.
this basket i’ve made in an accidental bed
i press the smoothed glass in the woven cradle
her wet body prints my fingers
where she is not you

a body has a wet place that can hold
and when it does not we call it empty
the body’s wet place is not even empty
but i am
my emptiness is my best approximation
of being wet without taking
cutting steps along our accident

being empty with smooth sanded glass in hand
is my best approximation of being
wet in her bed where i am not
where my erasers’ shed skin disappears
when i reconsider my letters to you

she asked me not to stop i did not
she asked me not to stop i did not stop
she asked me not to stop i did not stop anything
she asked me not to stop i did not stop
anything but my heart which stops
the letters and our shatter
i did not stop wrist deep in a basket
where i gathered the glass we made
glass we made and i made smooth
you asked me to let you stop and i let you stop
everything but my heart
and this mess of shards

i worked her to a froth with the detritus of our accident

this mess of shards
smoothed over and shoved
shoved so deep it knuckled the door in my chest

she asked me not to stop i did not stop
my heart from burning in another room you told me
i was too hot to touch you asked me
to let you stop
before my body made us into
an accident of warmth



iii.
arriving home
from her home
i washed each piece of smooth glass
till its color reappeared
i placed them one by one in my mouth
swallowing a prayer they might regrow their sharp edges
claw the walls their way down through me
leave a mark somewhere that we happened

you ask me to let you stop you do not want
to hurt me and i want
a record of the temperature that changed us

i clean us up against tender
extended globes my mouth
grabs like i’m falling
i’m falling into my own nostrils
where her smell stays even after
the shower and the shower does me no kindness
water keeping me
on this side of the drain

i love you in the clots that keep
my insides inside
intact or otherwise

i write a poem in an empty pelvic cradle
i blow my print like a lash
making this wish where you have
fingered my heart to sand