breaking slowly

the taste of your memory is bitter,

like the way his lips are bitter,

like the way this winter is bitter.

mother placed a chest

at the end of my bed,

she said it had my wedding things,

but i know what's inside.

it's full of brakeables--

a mirror and a vase and

the gentle shards of bottles.

the burning is bitter.

my daughter's belly rumbles,

and i imagine a beast in minature,

hiding beneth her ribs.

my heir falls from view,

leaving no stares, no grins to revive her.

i've got nothing against movement

but why does it have to be away?

stones weigh my eyes;

they are closed for want of intrest.

but they see something

on the darkness of their shut lids--

bright afternoon, cold blue sky,

under a blanket and the patchwork casts a rainbow.

you lay on my chest and i hear you breathe

and i cradle your head like a breakable thing;

quiet except for heartbeats;

what i want out of everything,

in a moment.