NaPoWriMo 2020 #9

It’s time to do the dishes, writing a poem instead

my mom used to tell me that her sister’s feet
were so calloused when they were kids
that she could walk on broken glass
unscathed.

she said this at a house
on the edge of my memory–
a house where nothing grows
and nothing changes.

we were house-sitting then
for people who are strangers to me now.

we fed the dogs.
we picked up the newspaper
from the driveway.

broken glass
in the driveway.

broken glass is everywhere
in my memory.

the shards are built for pain.

i bleed too often.
no callouses can protect.

4 thoughts on “NaPoWriMo 2020 #9

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