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.