She healed on top of crackled glass. 
The pretty kind 
that took care to craft 
with an artist’s chisel and practiced hand,
one swift jab and it grew a thousand corners; 
an appearing act. 
She became whole on glass
whose outsides hold 
a molten core of loose ends,
moving parts, 
a mosaic of shards and spaces, 
embossed between versions of itself 
it once was—
how marvelous, its brokenness
she found herself there.   
When she looks down, 
edges of herself stare up—
in her angles, a reminiscing 
of past disjointedness;
a montage or mockery, 
she is yet unclear. 
She holds a candle to 
this sea of reflections, rememberings
of distant selves,
parts gone and still here. 
One glints with a giggle,
another, a tear.