There are days

I think of Adam’s
heart exploding,

as my heart exploding

like a fluted glass
shattering
into a billion shards
inside of me.

On those days,
I think back to
a patch of grass we used to
walk to,
by the sawdust silt banks
of the Medway River.

We’d sit outside the shadow
of the rusting iron bridge

smoke a joint,
eat a turkey on rye,
watch the water ripple
over rocks where
salmon once swam

We’d talk about how everything moves
a little slower here,
the conversations
the sway of the willow
in the half dead wind,
the bee bouncing like a beach ball
from thorn bush to thorn bush,
even the squirrel scurrying up the tree

We’d stay until the last
logging truck rolls by,
until dark

laying on our backs
connecting Lite Brite dots
listening to a perfectly wild
chorus of crickets

until our eyes flicker shut,
until our legs leach into the soil
and we have to drag ourselves
back to my cottage.

I think about those days

not to numb the pain
not to live in the past

but to push through,
trying to pick up the pieces of
that fluted glass.