Marcella Remund


I keep this shard in my pocket,
cut glass to remind me of you,
how you came near once,
dim blue light refracted
in a broken cup I refused,
rapt in my own skin,
my eyes unfocused or closed,
and how I felt you hold on,
tenuous grasp on whatever
footing I would spare you,
etching yourself in me,
and how the flutter of you
sent a spark up my spine,
tripped me to sudden weeping
or laughter, and how you left
then, a vapor trail across
the dotted Milky Way,
and how sometimes in sleep I watch
your eyes open, know you know
I couldn't risk your soft breath,
and so I carry on as if you'd never
come, though deep in my pocket
I finger blue glass knowing
it will split the skin like birth,
knowing blood will soak the seams,
knowing you are the pale light
of a minor constellation now,
or the impulse in
someone else's sudden smile.
I finger blue glass and feel
the bite of you. It leaves a bruise
like an open blue eye.

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