She Comes To Me In Pieces
She comes to me
in pieces
Fragments of a life
Plates, glasses, bottles;
things that shatter, splinter
into tiny shards
leave drops of blood on her tongue,
if she steps on them
And hands
Always these tiny hands—
Fingers around the body of a camera,
clickety-clacking across an imaginary keyboard,
clenching a book
Always moving, grasping, reaching
along mirrors, doors, bricks
A white wall
Throwing me images
Saying,
“Here, you catch.”
- April, 2002