she brooms the glassblower’s studio at night
barefoot using the moon’s light to find
shards from brittle accidents
but on a charcoal night like this
her feet find them before the bristles
and curses curdle the silence
she picks the pieces from her foot
and wipes some blood on the leg of a stool
the one the master sits on
to bend the liquid glass with breath
lift the art to his eyes
and twist its silhouette still smoldering
with the heat of a small sun
she puts the broom away
slips on her socks and sandals
mumbles goodnight to no one
and with a slight limp
shuffles home
there adorning every surface
of every room fragments of crystal
she just couldn’t throw away