I am the tiny wine glass
underneath a crisp white cloth
crushed under the wide, leathered
foot of groom under chuppah in a tall
synagogue in colored leaf autumn
in a wedding I'll never have
on a street I'll never see.

I am the dinner plate
being thrown from the edge
of a blue, chipped paint dumpster
on the side of a sparkling parking lot
slick after persistent winter drizzle
that spits angrily from the sky
in a stack of other kitchen
items to be smashed
against pavement.

I am wrist bones of
the minuscule, important variety
in the moment a twig is caught in spokes
and thrown from the bicycle, you make impact
with the brick wall adjacent to the alley
and hear some small cracks
and are unable to lift your
fingers or right hand,
or twist to pull
yourself up.

I am the double-paned
window of a basement apartment
in the summer when hoodlums and homeless
kick glass for fun and seek to scare
innocent movie-watchers as
fireworks pierce and light
the third of July sky.

I am a sad little girl
with sad little eyes that look
out to the future and see something
moving in the distance, a pair of two young
people holding hands, walking on an
Oregon beach in foggy mist,
that blink and realize that
mirages are cruel, and
have no remorse.

I don't remember the strength I earned
though I hear in time, it's relearned.