When I was younger, my father said,
The broken ones become artists.
He cut the pumpkin pie
and the crust crumbled to the side.
Inside my fractured parts rattled.
Someone dropped a tray of glasses in the kitchen
and I heard them shatter.
A mother ran past holding her barefoot daughter.
A mother ran past with a broom.
A painting fell from the wall and I thought, Listen.
There were children hiding under tables of appetizers.
There were children painting hearts with squeeze cheese.
No one noticed my aunt, quiet with an Etch A Sketch.
I heard a mother pouring the broken glass into the garbage.
I heard her daughter say, Snowflakes.
I heard her daughter say, Flakes.
The broken ones grow up to be broken, I thought he said.
Don’t worry, we can replace them. They are easy to replace.
My father asked if I wanted whipped cream or Cool Whip.
There were clouds everywhere,
all breaking apart.