Broken Glass

My callused hands grasp broken glass
Made smooth by the sands of time
Opaque, a different shape
Warm and smooth now in my mind

Different colors, different sizes
I collected and prized them all
But what these bottles looked like
I cannot quite recall

Still I pluck their remnants from this shore
Alone on the beach with nothing to do
Trying to empty my head with this tedious chore
In the absence of something new

Were they just vessels for my outpourings?
My hopes, my dreams, my fears?
Did you pour in some of your own
Sour wines or bitter tears?

Either way there was little left
But a container, an outline
After we poured their contents out on the beach
When came the ending time

Did I smash them, drunk, angry, glad?
Or could it have been you?
Our eyes are cameras that reuse the film
Life erases the memory of what’s true

And the artifacts are hopelessly changed
The glass now smooth as stones
I can’t even see what the breakage looked like
Nor can I leave them alone

My pack is heavy and battered
Zippers ripping from the strain
Of carrying rocks I haven’t dropped
But all I can think to do is complain

And cram these relics in my bulging pack
Amongst the heavy stones
I grunt and heft it on my back
And turn and walk towards home

Once there, I root around inside
And blindly cut my hand
These trinkets, once safe, are safe no more
So I start mixing stone and sand

To cement this rebroken glass
Into something whole and new
A mosaic with strange patterns
A fresh take on what was true

And if you see this new creation
When I hang it on a wall
Will you know it came from me and you
Will you recognize it at all?

--Alfonso Mangione
   May 29, 2010