The bathroom floor gave way with a snap

The bathroom floor gave way with a snap,

a sharp, dry sound like a finger bone.

I pried up the piece of slate to bridge the gap

and felt the jagged weight of the stone.

It left a smear of gray dust on my thumb,

a fine, chalky silt from a thousand years ago.

My hands are shaking and my mind is numb

from thinking of things that don't want to grow.

We choose a shape and we set it in grout,

hope the adhesive holds through the spill.

But the stone remembers what we forgot about—

how easily a thing can break and stay still.