Don’t ask a poet
if a heart once broken
can be broken again.
She’ll answer in simile
caked earth cracks once and crumbles
a vase from Bassano del Grappa,
neck delicate and ballerina long
haughty, I suppose, in hindsight,
heaved off the hearth in the Northridge earthquake,
neck snapped as shattered pride,
re-glued, resting on the mantle
praying the Pacific Rim fault line goes dormant
as I used to pray
head bent and shaken
for a quiet night
of no drama
that he’d walk through the door
with footsteps sounding like reprieve
my neck safe from the heaving
of his tectonic plates shifting
magma rising to the surface
feet stomping their way to the bedroom.
In the morning nothing remained
on the shelves and mantels
of my heart.
And so, what is the answer?
Can a heart once broken be broken again?
Or is there something in a first break that transmogrifies the original?
An irreversible shift and release of energy
atoms rearranged
form
function
altered.
Scientists would say that nothing was lost
but poets would disagree.
And what of the mended places?
New fault lines
weaker
vibrating with seismic activity.
I take the long-necked vase off the shelf
rough tendrils amidst the once-smooth floral glaze
run my fingers along the yellowed veins of glue
walk again the winding alley behind the piazza
gaze again at the window display
hand painted cups, saucers, platters
and one lone vase with its improbably long neck
thin swirl of a handle
smooth pouring lip rimmed wine red
choose it again
fill half its body with water
cut two thin white stock stems on the diagonal
turning them until the open blossoms and buds arc just so.
Of course what has been broken can be broken again.
Run your fingers along my veins and scars
trace the lines of my neck
fill my body with blossoms and turn me just so
’til I forget that once I was unbroken
and you might break me again.