Other mornings sheared the sounds of broken glass
before breakfast, fruit or silver alike dropped on
the floor. In the in-between, days as reels of silent
film— our cast of tight-lipped characters unsure
of what to do in the next scene of the drama.
Oh but we cared: the evidence being how I cannot think
of that stretch of childhood except as mostly happy.
And so when I write of these, it isn’t in the interest of
what you call confession— I take the long cloth
and lay it out with no expectation of unburdening, no
interest in catharsis. I write and rewrite, simply trying
to find the clearest shape on the table; and yes, instruction
in decoding plot but also, finally, coming to terms. Some parts
are merely accident; the rest just need to go in the trash.