A glass shatters against the wall.
I see the arc of water flying from my hand, across the room
looping like a net of jewels
falling to earth: to carpet, to floor
and my daughter's voice asking me, why
over and over
her words hanging in the air with the ghost of the water
twin bridges, spanning the room from corner to corner
filaments of a spider's web, supple and strong
harder to break than you might imagine
uncut by the shattered glass
I throw to release myself.
4/13/96