I scrabble a broken pane that slips
in a sea of my own making,
little gashes to the bone.
I never held such a shattered thing before,
watching my aspirations fracture
before a growing urgency;
is this what it is like to survive?
No— my neighbor, long at fighting
has a palm that’s made of scars,
her dream to breathe,
her hope to sleep one night until dawn.
She was holding the windows together
while I stood looking through the glass.
Lauren Harwyn 2016