Ice on My Lashes

After the Jar Breaks

I separate my realities—one by one.
The arched edge; the soft glide; that kiss on my neck—

There I sit amongst them.
Did any of us understand in those delicate glass childhoods awaiting to be shattered, that this life would become one pile after another to be sorted; for the agonizings to be soothed late into the night; that we would need to be, our own soft words of consolation?