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She is broken pottery.
Shattered and repaired again and
Again and again and—
It’s foolishly hopeful, of course.
The yellowing globs of glue
Do nothing to hide the number of times
She has been utterly destroyed
I inspect her closer and
In the glue-filled gaps I find
A different girl.
One made of stardust and light
Near-forgotten melodies and the laughter
Of friends and glowing molten gold.
She smiles a broken grin at me,
And tucks this new memory away
Into some empty hole somewhere.
I see her now, and know
That I was wrong.
Fall, 2018 Issue
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