The Sharpness of the Room

The green glass was a heavy, ugly thing,

a gift from someone I don't talk to now.

I watched the way the overhead light would cling

to the rim and make a shallow, sickly vow.

I brought it down against the iron heat,

the radiator's ribs, a sudden crack.

It felt like something finally complete,

until the green came raining, rushing back.

Now I am anchored to this kitchen chair,

my bare feet dangling over jagged light.

A single shard is caught and hanging there

in the metal slats, a tooth inside the night.