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  • Writer's pictureSusanna Lang


Updated: Jul 24, 2019

Once it’s been broken, the body

holds the memory of falling

as you would hold a fragile goblet

that belonged to your great grandmother,

whose name you also carry.

The body holds with two hands

the memory of falling, as you

would hold an entire tray of goblets.

That delay before you reach the ground, 

the sound of something shattering

that blanks all other sounds—birds

silenced, no broom to sweep up

the shards, no arm to sweep with.

Cobbled together, the body walks

with eyes fixed on where the next 

step falls and the step after that, sings

a few words over and over, once again

upright and moving across the earth. 

Always the body holds its memory, 

water brimming a goblet etched in gold.

As published in SWWIM.

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