Shattered. Shards of glass
lie scattered underfoot.
All I had meant to do
was dust it.
Finnish, it was, you said.
A small crystal goblet
gifted by a special friend.
It slipped from my hand
and is now in fragments.
Meant to contain a cordial
or a shot of whisky,
it was as Heidegger said
a container that gave form to
its contents, which by themselves
have no form.
But the shape of what it was
remains, giving shape to memories
that will survive
until I too am shattered,
dust.
Erika Bizzarri 
I couldn’t help but notice my reluctance to comment on this piece, and I see that I’m not alone. I found it easy to identify with the accident that is the point of departure for this piece. But I find myself uncomfortable with the ending—the part that comes after “But the shape of what it was remains, giving shape to memories that will survive…” I would like this meditation to end here.
Perhaps the ending is too realistic and I prefer to remain in denial. Or maybe our vantage points are different. But of course a curve ball could come at any time.
Nevertheless, even in describing the shattering that happened in the face of a well-intentioned dusting, you have succeeded in recycling that loss forever. That is the power of being able to give voice to catastrophe, and that is my takeaway.
Envoyé de mon Di-Phone
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