Brooke Matson Elegy in a State of Porcelain

winter is a prism in reverse / colors
reassembling into white
snow that illumines
the morning / kisses the dark
needles of pine / the season
before his death / it crusted the patio
like porcelain from plates I split
against it
months later in my rage / all the delicate
flowers arranged in jagged blue
and alabaster triangles / a kaleidoscope
of edges / fine powder
lost between them / the drifting debris
of dead stars / what I mean is
I loved the brushstrokes
at the corners of his eyes / little hairline
fissures / what I mean is
we are more than our breaks / what cannot
be reconstructed from the bang
or the plate before / spinning like a galaxy
across the porch


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