It took years to arrange
these days -- so careful, so clean --
with professional opinion and advice.
This Tuesday matches
that Wednesday, matches
that pillow, that duvet cover.
You came to visit, and I warned you
not to touch anything, not to brush
too close your warmth, too bright
for the fragile grey shell of these days,
but you were careless,
and you broke the days open.
Sunlight burst the cracks and flooded
the basement where I kept
the cardboard boxes never unpacked,
mildew colored and smelling of concrete.
We waded into the light
up to our knees, sometimes our hips,
salvaging floating rules and schedules
and you promised you’d fix it -- so sorry,
so sorry -- while I prayed you’d
take a wrench to the whole damn thing,
crash it to pieces, make it never run again.
Laura Markowitz is an emerging writer from Wisconsin. She's a graduate of Beloit College, where she studied English and Performing Arts as well as the finer points of perching enigmatically on the backs of dorm furniture.