Spill

The freeze-framed streets of my neighborhood, 
where fog lifts light and snowflakes float down: 
that’s the one I wanted to give to you. I tried 
to build it in a snow globe. A front porch swing, 
the two of us swaying beneath the light, 
brown leaves bedded in the wintered lawn, 
but with every house I molded the roof crushed in.
With each glass dome, a crack popped out
just as I was ready to set it in place. 

What I’m trying to tell you is I can’t give you anything 
without my stutter. With me, there is no world 
that doesn’t come in pieces. Even when I say neighborhood 

I mean my favorite memory of us. But I can’t say memory of us 
without splitting it sound by sound, and everything 
I give to you 
		I want to give it to you whole. 

When I give it to you, water 
		streams down the glass slope
	and collects in your palms.
					 
And when you flip the snow globe, 
				one thousand pieces 
				of glitter spring 
							from nowhere, 
like the number of times 
my voice cracks open words 
				when I talk to you, 
				and my broken speech spills out. 
 
Pieces of my thoughts
glimmer down 
		this neighborhood in your hands 
		as you turn the globe back up 
		and place it on the coffee table. 
						We watch the glitter capture light, 
						shimmering reflections of our painted faces
then it settles down as snow. 
I imagine the porch light buzzing bright 
					above the two of us on the swing, 
					burning as if forever. Humming all night, 
										and that one note 
										will never flicker. 

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