17/30

When you broke open
on the hardwood floor
I remember the sound of then
spilling from the room.
Millions of pieces, cutting your fingers
trying to reach them all
as I listened to my sister's 2 year old giggle
the winding creak of fishing line
the lawnmower's cough,
all of them
spinning into small circles
going down the drain.

I did not say you could take those away.

Instead,
dug up my tin cans, my binoculars,
my flat stone collection
took them to the burrow to sit,
watched the kitchen window
as my father burst open on the counter
my sister's wailing voice ringing through the streets
the sound of then
stepping into the boots of now
It is quiet, now,
I press the whitest stone into my palm
and listen to my parents
dream themselves further apart
than their seperate beds.