The Breaking of the Glass
I.
Beneath the chuppah, I took a vow--
wither thou goest, I will go;
and wither thou lodgest; I will lodge.
And God as my witness
I meant it,
believed that
cleaving unto you
would still the tremor in my hands, unclench
my teeth. Fear seeps
through my skin,
soaks my shirt.
II.
This is the physics of uncertainty.
Even gravity fails.
I am falling up.
Ink floats
off the pages of my journal. Your letters
unwrite themselves.
III.
Dishes leap into the sink.
I drown them in steaming suds.
The front door
slams, a wet glass
slips, shatters at my feet.
You turn the water off,
kiss my reddened hands.
IV.
On our wedding day, you didn't
stomp a wineglass.
Instead, the rabbi wrapped
a lightbulb in a white cloth.
A symbol of a symbol
far easier to break. We clean
the floor carefully. Sweep
then vacuum. One less
to pack.
V.
After we seal the last carton,
after the van drives away, light
echoes off white walls,
finds the last
bits of broken glass.