Delicate Craters
Your father betrayed me with the composure of leaves, accretion of desire in cells. Snowy twilight on peaks was nothing to his wastrel beauty. Some things he shattered I still recall as though they were whole: a narrative of well-read romance, a bowl my sister made perfect from flaws— minute spheres of oxygen caught and baked in the glaze reappearing, punctured, as delicate craters. When he struck the back car window with a brick, its faint green safety glass became a giant sand, an awkward salt cut fine enough to season every wound we drove toward and through.