you were six when you dropped
mama’s vase in the kitchen then buried its shards
in the tide. Sometimes
there is no way but to hide the accident,
no way to calm the quivering of your petal
hands; how could you
learn what holding meant
until you knelt on the unpolished
tiles, lifted up the fragments
off the floor? Remember, you had
crammed every corner of the house with silences,
having never said
you love her, lest she
stuff your mouth with sand. Now pray
time will be on your side, let the water rise –
let salt weather down the teeth
of glass: edges now rounded, frosted surfaces
scattering light. No wonder
you wade in every day, without fail,
fingers wrinkled from having been soaked
too long in the shallow, you
grab wildly at stones or shells or bits of dead
coral in search of the crystalline
pieces. You walk home with palms
empty – cradle
the ghost of a vase
that never held blooms.