The horizon bleeds rust at dusk,
a tongue too heavy to speak.
Beneath my ribs, a sparrow nests—
its wings damp, folded tight.

Once, I traced a river’s spine
on a map stained with coffee rings,
dreaming of a shore I’d never reach.
The wind smells of ash and old refrains.

A child’s shoe lies abandoned in the grass,
laces frayed like a promise unkept.
I hold the pieces—
a shattered cup,
a forgiveness that doesn’t quite fit,
a shard of blue from a sky I lost.

I set them down,
turn toward what remains—
a needle of light through the clouds,
a lover’s laugh,
rain tapping on a roof
I still call home.

First Published in Three Panels Press, Issue 05: Honey and Ash

This poem grew out of thinking about what comes after breaking. Not the moment of impact itself, but the quiet that follows, when something in our lives has given way, and we’re left living inside the aftermath. A loss, a disruption, a truth we didn’t see coming. The world doesn’t always fall apart loudly. Sometimes it just doesn’t fit the way it used to.

I wanted to stay with that feeling. The heaviness and disorientation, but also the long stretch of time that follows. The slow, often invisible work of noticing what’s still here. Of picking things up carefully, one at a time. Of learning which pieces we can carry forward, and which we’re allowed to leave behind.

Recovery isn’t neat, and it isn’t quick. We don’t always return to who we were before. And sometimes we never do. But there is something deeply human in the effort to make a life that’s livable again. If you’re somewhere in that long middle right now, I hope this poem feels like company.

As always, a huge THANK YOU for taking the time to read my poem. Without you, my voice would be a whisper just floating in the air.