playing house with broken glass.
there's a saltwater film on the jar of your ashes
taken to sea and scattered about ripples of water
carved from teardrops begging for revenge.
they chased down the wind current with loyalty and
blew back – flecks of broken promises and unspoken
words resurrected from their grave like he was birthed
to draw bloody tears from something fragile.
daddy, where are you? the fragments of your existence
are little glass mirror shards, the kind i used to play in
on desolate friday nights when dealing blackjack with
real paper money turned trite. back when your reflection
was more than a whisperless ghost.
some nights we still reach up with little six-year old paws
into night oblivion, capture a falling star between our palms
like fireflies whose beams illuminate dirty kitchens and alleyway
crevices. it was as though he was banished from up there and
the dilapidated lighthouse was too far inland anyways.