To My Friend Who Advises to Shatter Something to Pieces

It’s not that there is not merit to

what you are saying.

Sure; there is certainly satisfaction

in breaking something apart,

reveling in the tiny fragments

that scatter where it once 

claimed whole.

Creation, even, 

in destruction.

But if you take an egg,

throw it with all of your strength,

and watch the soggy insides

drip and ooze against the concrete

where it met its demise

so suddenly,

you cannot take back your action.

Similarly, with your suggestion:

take a bat and smash it!

You have defied the first Creator

of your now beaten, 

broken object

that was once a vase, 

a lamp, a teapot, a glass,

never to be as it once was.

There is no coming back,

no repair you could possibly offer,

amount of glue, or time, or energy,

to give back to the first artist

who sat painting, painstakingly,

threw on the wheel, handbuilt,

or blew with heat and fire at their brow,

the sweat and blood worked into 

their art piece,

nor do you honor the first owner

who saw it as something that might

bring color and light into their

home, or coffee, how it matched

some part of their own soul and 

called to them.

It is a statement, to be sure,

and granted, I do not take to

any theory of broken windows

or juvenile crime from your 

emotion that you deigned art

the very moment a wooden

bat connected with a fragile

figment, standing in your

way of violent rebellion (it is, afterall,

in our nature to do such things),

but I must protest.

What is it, exactly, 

that you wish to state?

That you can break something?

Did you believe that you could not?

That no object lasts forever?

Were we not already aware?

Or is it a metaphor for the fragility 

of life, a moment taken to

destroy what took hours to 

design, seal, and paint?

What is the point of that?

If you took these pieces, and made

a mosiac, or pictures for a show,

slowed down time to watch that moment

preserving it on film forever,

but I don’t feel that is what you are doing,

no.

You destroy it for the sheer joy

of destroying something,

and nothing more than that.

I can not abide this.

I won’t.

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Three 

We three waited

for a waterslide,

unsure if we could 

all go together.

Each positioned a seat on a 

yellow raft with handles,

and nervously giggled.

Young ladies, each adults now,

wonderment in our hearts

at how simple things like

gravity and water could transform

three sisters into the children 

we once were.

Terrified at points, 

feeling like the pull

was too harsh, 

and panic in three sets of eyes

three years apart. 

Each thought that 

we might die.

Just hold on.

Don’t you dare let go.

Into the abyss, backward

we were thrust, and after 

what seemed eternity,

(about 3 seconds)

we emerged joyous with laughter,

too giddy to find out footing,

three sisters onto the 

next slide.

When asked why I am so fixated on death

I know
that death is merely a part of life.
A fixed location, steadily awaiting
our eventual arrival across
the swirling fog and seafoam.

Maybe it is because I have never known
life without end, and I have seen so
many final chapters, slipping right out of my arms, fluttering, transcendant.

I would rather hold death,
the lives of those I hold dear,
than pretend there is order
without chaos.