a piece of glass; a prose poem

she told the story of god, the one about the golden vessel and how it cracked; and before she could get to the part that explains it i imagined the bits of gold were surely the stars and moons and suns. if the world isnt a piece of glass that cuts, reflects, and obscures, then tell me how you were able to do it. sometimes when i am horizontal and the tears stream from the outer corners of my eyes and pool in the conches of my ears i remember how we would sit by the pond:  you were so careful with your tending to the arrow lilies; other times i wonder if i might go deaf from the water gathering there. i told him youre off the table:  you see, i am selfish now. i dont want to share you, not with anyone who would have a hand in shaping the way i remember you. walking up the stairs to the hotel room i knew i had stayed long in town deliberately:  if i ran blindly, made deaf by my own sorrow and my ears catching rain toward the dying sea, could i hear my own voice or would it just be a feeling, an advancing and quickening scrape along the follicles of my throat and the acrid taste of my own stomach heaving windy through my mouth? you had a dream on your sailboat one afternoon, all alone on the sound and the sunset turned the sky to gold:  you would fall in love and have two children, your work would be rewarding, and you would never die. one day, upon deciding what next to create, god picked up a handful of sand and blew hot breath onto it and turned it to glass. god blew the glass until it formed a sphere and placed what was most important inside of it. upon deciding what next to create, god placed the sphere on the edge of the workbench:  it was so fragile it barely made a sound when it rolled off and shattered. 

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