if detritus is all i’m made up of
by Fransivan MacKenzie
my love is a caneless grandfather, directionless
as he staggers his way into the kitchen on a muted new year’s day,
or perhaps the shaky hands that clean up after the mess
of his retch and wretchedness on the cracked marble countertops.
still, nana isn’t going to come back, won’t rise from the grave
except in his benders where his chapped lips cradle her name.
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house,
splinters that creep under my skin and follow me in my dreams,
remnants of dead lives startling me at midnight.
still, the least broken thing here is the manila envelope
holding mama and papa’s divorce papers, signed and singed for a lifetime.
my love is a rock carved into a promise i never learned to keep
but at least it’s beautiful, see how many poets lose their sleep
catching it in its best angle, like a detritus of a shattered wine glass
borrowing the first sunlight of 2021, like a vow that sings to the ears
yet stabs you through and through, a portrait framed by my bones,
i can’t help but paint bruises on every spot my lovers tread their fingers on