What’s fractured can’t be fixed.

The dish that has fallen

and lays shattered,

if not picked up carefully,

has dangerous edges that can hurt

more than the loss.

The cup with its chipped rim

will never be the same to lips

that loved to sip from it.

That spot will always be a place

to be avoided

like words better left unsaid.

And bones, once broken,

the leg, the foot, the arm, the thumb

may heal, perhaps

but always know the ache

that dampness brings

and hold the memory of that

painful day.

But most of all,

when I look back at silences

fractured by the loudness of our voices

saying what we should not say,

words cracking

what we both hold dear,

the trust,

now fractured into fragments,

I wish that I could dig fresh clay

and mold again a bowl

to hold our differences,

a vessel to contain the power of our words

and remain forever whole.

But I can’t leave this hill,

this stone,

and must look back

at what was fractured

by our careless hands,

the broken pieces

shattered on the floor,

our eyes

not believing

what has fallen.