The glass, half-full, is cracked. I notice this when I raise it to my lips and your face fractures beyond the rim. Sometimes we see what was not there before or what was always there but we were looking at the water not the glass, which slithers from my hands, hurtles to the ceiling and explodes. A thousand splinters glint around my head.
This poem first appeared in the anthology Dark Confessions (ed. Matthew M. C. Smith) Black Bough Poetry 2021.