Dropping my Grandmother’s Faberge Egg

Voice recording of author reciting poem.

I knew there was nothing I could do.

It was as if all the windows shattered

in an instant of bubblegum rush–

all bent brass. Pearlescent plummet 

clawing the meaty palm of John, who 

refused to look anywhere but up. Whispering

dust filled prayers to circle around the room.

On the floor eyelash dusting gold

flecks and we stopped. Touched

fingertips to sugared wood. Picked dirt 

from our nails, took off our shoes,

and walked over the remains.