Breakage

It could be a metaphor,
A physical illustration,
Of the violence
Evident closely around me,
My subconscious
Needing for me
To experience the shattering
In real time,
Needing for my ears
To hear the crash of fragility
Against the grooved
And stained
Concrete,
The surface uncaring
And unaffected,
In the sickly fluorescent glow.
Needing for my eyes
To see the jagged sharp edges,
The earthenware’s rust interior,
Showing through the familiar sage green,
The viscera of someone dear
Irreparably exposed,
No longer functional,
In a split-second of unconscious action.
Needing for my heart
To experience the powerlessness
As I gather the pieces
And try in vain
To put them back together,
All the king’s horses
And all the king’s men…
It must be that,
A metaphor,
An attempt to make sense,
Of the larger senselessness,
Why else would such a small loss
Make me cry so?
It’s only a trifle,
A utensil,
A tool.
But it’s not,
Not a trifle,
Not merely a tool,
And not a metaphor.
I feel this loss deeply
Not because this is the ‘one more thing,’
It the straw
And me the camel,
I feel this loss deeply
Because of our history,
Because, in this world of much,
This was a beautiful, singular thing,
A companion
Through so many miles,
And years.
So I will not try to justify,
To make it bigger
So that it reasonably warrants
The degree of my devastation.
I will mourn with the gravity
That this friend deserves,
And bless its passing,
Grateful for the time we had
Knowing it is likely
That only I
And it
Will understand.
©2016 Annette Meserve

 

 

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