MUSED Literary Magazine.


Brigitte Goetze

Her voice was gentleó
another mother
sure in her knowing
what was wrong
with me.

Still, I clung
to my little bit of sense:
those shards laying scattered
could not be worked
back into a crystal bowl.

I had to learn on my own
that my heart, a red ball
of raw copper, was malleable,
would flatten and widen
in response to each blow,

shaping itself into a serving
salver, sturdier than glass,
vast enough to hold all
that I could gather
from a long fallís fruit.