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 Dec 2017 Nichole
Robert Cayne
I stare at
The splintered puerile doll
With a benign curiousity
That grows into macabre enthusiasm
In this gothic museum

To unbend the legs,
And unhitch the thighs,
From encumbered postures,
And unequal lies.
 Dec 2017 Nichole
 Dec 2017 Nichole
Turn off the music,
stop that constant doing.
Look it in its bloodied teeth:
This broke us.
This was far too much.
We don't know how to be a person after this.
We can't even seem
to comb our hair.

All we have now
are all these pieces.
We kneel in the shards,
and feel the remnants cut,
and wail about our scarred images
and cancelled plans.

We don't know what to do
when we're shattered,
but maybe if we can just
feel this breaking,
without lusting for
the once-****** whole,
we can grow quiet enough
to hear the laughter:

for the neighbor kids
have already begun
stringing our pieces
into bracelets that say Love.

An old man is scattering
our fragments in the park.
People delight
as the pigeons descend.

A salesman peddles our scraps
door to door,  and makes enough
to finally pay the bill
that turns the lights back on.

A tailor makes a sweater
of our mistakes, while a baker
turns our heartbreaks into bread
for a different kind of breaking.

Come to the window,
these new friends call.
See what our brokenness has become.
Our pieces are raining from the sky
and quenching this parched earth.
People are dancing  in the streets.

Close your eyes and listen
to the laughter and the rainfall
of what our pieces teach.

— The End —