(hands in glass are like
a heart trying
to let go. bare skin and
sharp angles- even when
you put down the shards, pry
your fingers open your
hands will glitter and
sting like unshed tears with all
you grasped honestly, nakedly, all
that you can't leave behind)

my mother built this
child's gravestone with
(her child's gravestone with)
her own two hands. she lifts
the glass and places it in
the mold, bending, and shifts
her arms and twists
her hands to let go. This
is her penance, this
work is not swift she
plunges her hands in, looks
for pieces to fit while
the glass tumbles with
a tinkling 'chisk'
but her hands
are protected
by gloves.