odd poem from the archives

breaking glass

she says,
“a weekend of glass breaking would do her some good.”

pickle jars, those forgotten dishes with the orange flower trim, an old perfume bottle

all of them, broken.
lying in a shattered pile of
arguments,
something she should have said
relationship that ended too soon
sharp words
pain already forgotten.

i am reminded of a half an hour i spent breaking glass once.

she and i set pieces of glass
in the branches of a sapling
across the creek from where we stood
and shot them with bb guns.

i quickly learned to take aim
at the glass through the sight
to grasp the trigger
feel my index finger pulling back
the slight jolt of the stock against my shoulder,
the splintering of glass breaking apart
falling almost soundlessly to the forest floor.

soon after, her father found us,
scolded us for the shards that lay
unrecoverable amidst dirt and pine needles
he took the guns away.
not before
we discovered the absolute satisfaction in the sound of breaking glass.