Grace and Peace to you.
Not the great tragedies,
they have their own orchestra.
But the gentle tear in the fabric,
the best of intentions,
the dust of all this.
The empty glass,
the error, the wound,
the cross’ smaller shadow, finer grain.
A peg on the wall, coat on the floor.
Regret’s inescapable weight,
the sand in your shoe
of wrongs you’ve done,
broken china glued a dozen times,
a carved treasure box holding wreckage.
The grave in the pit of your heart
you come closer every day
to fitting exactly.
The lone bird, mistaken,
far, far over the wrong sea.
The world’s mosaic finished
with your piece still in your hand.
No words above the rectangle of dirt
in the grass, even the stone struck dumb.
The one who departs with your silence.
The child you raise imperfectly
to your cheek, apologizing
with such tender love and shame.
And every moment you spent weeping
on the bathroom floor.
Secretly you know
there will never be time to get this right.
You kiss the Beloved with lips of ash
who holds you and says,
“I know, darling.
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