The Spring 1988 issue of the SRJC literary annual, First Leaves included one of my poems.
“She Broke My Heart and It Left Little Bits of China under the Edge of the Kitchen Cupboards”
She lifted my heart from the table, carried
it carefully and I watched her for a minute, not
puzzled, just interested. It wasn’t a
minute, though, that she held it above
the kitchen floor. She was standing by
the stove, I didn’t have to turn around to
see – wouldn’t have done that. I turned a
page in my book.
I always thought one made more noise
than that. When a bottle falls and shatters it
certainly makes a pop, a smack, a huff like anger or
the dog you woke by stepping on. I looked up
again and she was sweeping. She had to get down on
her knees to reach under the stove with the broom. She
dumped a pan of red glazed white porcelain crumbs into
a paper bag.
“I would have used plastic,” she said, placing
the folded-over bag on the tble next to the novel. “But
there weren’t any.” I would’ve told her to go away,
but I didn’t have the energy. “I wish you wouldn’t talk
to me,” I said.