What My Hands Did

Their phone slipped down the stairs and fell,

and I watched it tumble to the ground.

Each bounce, each crack—I could tell

I should move, but I just sat, pinned down

by something I couldn't name.

My hands stayed folded in my lap.

The glass cracked. Spread out like flame.

I didn't close the gap.

I could have stood. I could have tried.

I could have reached my arm across

the space between us. But I died

right there inside, and I lost

the moment when I could have saved it.

The phone lay at the bottom, warm.

I picked it up. I couldn't behave

the way someone should—I kept the form

of sitting, staying still, and letting

the thing I loved break into pieces.

That's what my inaction was begetting:

a broken phone, my failure that ceases

nothing. The screen stays cracked.

I stay here. Some things you don't take back.