My Little Glass Jar

My little glass jar,

your purchase was an afterthought

at a garage sale, or perhaps

you were born pickles or Bolognese, and

I rubbed off your label under hot water

and set you out to dry.

I fill you with pennies, or bright

star-shaped candies, or sometimes

I stuff you with wax and wick and set you aflame.

My little glass jar,

when he throws you,

your death sounds like an angel’s cruel laugh,

a sound that contains many sounds

to make many shards

and red drops on a dark carpet.

A startle satisfies, does it not?

The desired effect, achieved.

In the silence, my eyes drop:

look! There are hundreds

of us, refracted, shattered.

A cathedral’s rose window, smatterings

of color, light, sorrow.

My little glass jar,

I fill you with wonderful things,

you break,

you empty,

and you are replaced.

Excuses strung on a rosary, each bead

weathered smooth by my oil and sweat:

my prayer is to remain.