I race to write this before it escapes me
hurrying forward with my thoughts before my daughter can cry or shout
demanding that shard of me I broke off
four years ago for her.
I shatter my life into segments, trying to smash one piece --
however oddly shaped, however burred with snags and evil glass barbs --
into something that will fit the hole inside myself.
They burn, they rub, rough edges rasping with a brittle music against each other
and I walk stiff-legged, one shoulder down, so as not to disturb
their fragile balance.
Hold still, and I hear the whisper of breath
whining through their chinks.
Dance, and shard on shard clatters with the tune
then breaks, crackling outward from the friction point,
fire-molten sand grown cold and sharp
leaving a sliver of ice in my snow queen's heart.
Then I stand aside, cold and watchful,
wondering what stupid thing I will do next,
trying to find the piece that will save me
from this want I don't understand.
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