Broken

We’re down another drinking glass.  

The shards 

Stupidly shatter 

Scattering useless pieces of

No-longer-drinking-glass 

On our rug. 

“It’s just a broken glass”

You shrug. 

“We’ll clean it up.” 

But to me 

It’s just another tally mark 

It’s just another ounce 

In the bucket 

On the scale 

Of judgement. 

It’s just another failure. 

Enraged, erratic, irrational, 

This is your fault. 

To you, it's always just a drinking glass.  

To you, we can always just pick up the pieces. 

The glass is broken, it’s never coming back! 

Can’t you see it?  

The scale has been tilted 

And it’s too late to pull myself out of the downward spiral. 

I’m so mad at you- 

No, I’m mad at myself- 

Mad at myself because you are always so much better than me at these things-

Mad at myself because I feel like I need your help to clean up this glass-

“I can clean it up myself!”

After an hour of pointless fighting

We clean up the shards of glass 

And you still love me. 

We’ll buy another drinking glass. 

You hug the broken parts of me 

Because you don’t think they’re useless shards. 

You know me and you think I’m not completely broken,

Would anyone else agree? 

Do I want to know? 

Maybe it doesn’t matter. 

Maybe what matters is fighting over a stupid drinking glass 

Because you know me 

And you see the broken pieces 

And you still love me.

Please, accept me, love me, 

Come back after every fight

To gather the pieces, 

Together 

We can fix it, 

And if we can’t 

We’ll buy another drinking glass.

Big, Big World

Have you ever seen
the fly’s face up close? 

Fury with massive eyes, 

round, without pupils, 

As though he was wearing 

Night vision goggles? 

Who knew how diabolical 

was the expression of
The common household pest?

Have you ever seen the 
sidewalk, when it looks like

there’s a patch of dirt

inching ever so-slightly over?

Upon closer examination, 

it is a parade of ants,   

tricking the eye, 

like brown flecks 

in an impressionist painting.

Carrying gifts 

three times their size

back home. 

Have you ever seen
the impressive handiwork 

of a spider? 

When its most carefully woven strands 

form the ominous yet 

magnificent structure, 

glinting almost rainbow 

in the sun, 

looking like the soft and springy 

bungee chair I had in my house, 

tempting its tired, flying prey

to take rest. 

Have you ever seen

the worm, after it was cut in two, 

I gasped, aghast, until 

both halves of its body 

wriggled away, 

leaving behind 

their usual shiny trail, 

unphased,
the tail is born
a snail anew.

I used to sift through 

the soil, its soft, gravel-ey, 

unified, unbreakable, 

yet pliable, movable structure

and wonder what types of surprises 

it would present.

I never learned as much as I did 

exploring the outdoors,

as though from a bird’s eye view, 

or in an up-close scope, 

the animals, wind, and trees 

would whisper stories, 

I would bring a notebook 

and write them down:

The stories about me

and the big, big world. 

And even when I grew 

old enough to go to school

I would catch a glance at the woodgrain

desk, its scribbles

and swirly lines

would turn into an eye,

a bug, or maybe even a tree, 

and tell me stories

and I would write them down 

And even now. 

I try to rewind in my mind’s eye

and look out into the world 

through that same

child-like wonder.

I am trying to keep it alive 

like the bird I found 

with a broken leg, 

or the worm 

that spurred two lives 

just as natured seemed to end him,  

I am trying to write it all down. 

Doomed in my Twitter Career

The Gaps

The silence that fills 

The peaceful forest 

While the whoosh 

Of the waterfall and the wind 

Whistle in our ears- 

Such sweet

Serenity. 

The silence of 

Nothing-to-say, 

No longer sticky and awkward, 

Sinking deep 

Into the armchair 

Of thought-

Slowly releasing 

The burden of speech-pressure, free-

As though it were just me.

As though it were just you. 

The affectionate silence. 

Dialogue through eyes 

And the sound of breathing. 

Saying I love you 

But wordless, 

But deeper.

The silence of listening 

And processing. 

The thoughtful expression 

And your mind, its slow-burning flame

Thoroughly engulfing-

Sensitively selecting 

Its next words. 

Grief-filled silence.  

There is nothing to say 

That expresses the pain 

Of the loss. 

There is only

Comfort of presence, 

Of being able to say 

Nothing.

Nothing at all. 

****

Words have connotations, 

Layers of meaning, 

Carry feeling,

Silence, too- 

A language in and of itself. 

I have listened carefully 

To the gaps:

In our conversation,

In the notes you play 

On your guitar.

Birds During a Pandemic

I stand with my feet placed 

Mindfully together, 

Head slowly bows 

Towards the earth. 

Just then, a woodpecker 

Right outside my window 

Shows its gaudy red cap,

Pecking loudly at the feeder. 

Before you know it 

He call his friends, and

I’m engaging in the banned act 

Of communal prayer 

With a gathering 

Of birds. 

I try to reflect and maintain focus

While the birds are chattering endlessly 

And pecking their breakfast 

Out from my birdfeeder. 

Haven’t they any respect? 

I chuckle at the thought

Of them in the synagogue, still yelling,

When we return to normalcy. 

On top of my feeder a bluejay is singing.

There are places where gathering limits are

Smaller than my family 

But the bluejay calls over

Swaths of children and friends

Without a worry. 

Their world isn’t shaken, 

Their world hasn’t been touched. 

The birds continue chirping in sweet naivety. 

They have reversed the roles on us.

While we are now caged in our homes

My birds’ cage door,

Much to their delight, is always open.

Squawking until we fulfill their every demand, 

They are in the limelight of freedom in this house.  

The birds are still 

Waking up with the sky 

And chattering during prayer 

Like they have nothing to request 

From God. 

And there’s a sort of hope I’ve found here, 

There’s a truth I’ve learned 

From their tunes

When they sing, and talk, 

And forget to check the news. 

These birds, I think they live in the future,

When Nature will restore

What she has taken away

As Nature will do. 

The birds, they act no differently

Than they did before the world 

Seemed to crumble 

Under the crushing of the merciless,

Veiled force, peering around every corner,

They live in the post-plague world,

They are free. 

The Death of the Author or Discussing The Yellow Wallpaper

The Death of the Author 

or

Discussing The Yellow Wallpaper 

My class wondered if 

We should kill the author. 

And I found it odd

This favorability of the work of 

Their own minds 

Over the one who wrote it. 

They searched for latent content

In the author’s words 

Like surgeons trying to extract

Literature, from its roots 

Firmly planted

In origin. 

Do not shoot the author. 

Instead, 

Plant a flower 

By her grave. 

Instead, 

Walk the trail 

That connects her words 

To the source. 

The source that stirred her

Hands, to write

The inexplicable,

The mystery of  

The workings of

This human mind

You will never find it.  

It doesn’t matter. 

They saw the author 

While she was weak and said 

“Go back to sleep, 

Little darling.”

Like the husband,

Like the physicians 

Who did not heed their clients.

Her words 

Are not floating. 

They blossomed 

From her brain. 

They were born 

From her mind,

A mind

Of such strength 

The 18th century men were blind to it 

Until it was too late, 

Until too many women 

Had gone mad 

Believing them. 

When I start my sentence

“The author expresses...” 

I will not delete it. 

Her voice, her words, 

Kept her alive because 

They were the only thing that was hers

Her words 

Shot out of her pen 

From isolation and struck 

The injustices 

From the angle 

Where they could expose

And history heard 

Her words

And we still 

Wonder 

If we should hear them 

As they were intended.