More glass is shattered

because I am graceless.

No matter.  It's what I do.

A tiny sliver embeds in my heel.

The prick is invisible,

and the blood is less than virginal.

copious,

three fat drops on the tile.

The glass is gathered and discarded,

the blood captured in tissue

and kept for a while

in my regard.

This is my stained lily.

This is precious beyond words.

My clumsiness shows me that broken jars

do not matter,

nor in time do broken hearts.

My blood is what counts,

my proof of life,

my love distilled by pain.

The self, in every sense,

is what must be preserved.

I will love my mind and bone and flesh.

You can give your love to glass

and be shattered by wasted fruit.