We are each other’s broken mirror,
shards our lips,
the crunch underfoot our sad song.
We glue ourselves back together,
slicing our fingers in the process
so that blood becomes our tears
as they streak across smudged glass
which reflects nothing but
the black crib of death.
When I say, “Honey, please believe me.
It wasn’t your fault,”
you convulse and shoot splinters
around the room,
tiny spears hitting the tiny headboard
and tiny pink pillow,
hitting the kitty mobile suspended above
the basinet with its too bright colors.
After a while, you let me hug you
and we shatter again.
There will be more of this.
Of course there will.
We will clutch and shatter,
clutch and shatter,
shatter and shatter and shatter
until we turn to sand,
make a beach of ourselves,
let the ocean lap us
and bring back our baby girl,
cooing near coconut trees,
ready to held,
stared at,
or just loved.
In Between Hangovers 