Staring up at me
from the mishmash of sweaters
is a piece of the glass fish
I broke when Mom left.
Part of its eye.
Dusty yellow.
Sharp edges.
I sit with it
in my closet.
My stomach sick.
Like hanging on to the ledge of a building,
I squeeze the glass piece
as tight as I can.
When I uncurl my fingers,
red covers the fish’s remains,
my palm bleeds
just a little bit.