Fragile Broken Things

Public Installation 'Fragile Broken Things': Four Part Poem. 100 Glass Bottles.

One: Love

Love is a typo.

Smeared ink;

Prescription lenses;

A game in which we allocate

Blame.

But I am not here to be seen.

I am once again reminded of that naive little girl.

She who held love in her clenched fist.

She who clung to a pale string of pearls,

and the smirking satisfaction

of grasping an abstract concept

here in physical form.

She who was misled.

She did not then know that

Love is a photograph.

The ideal of which

we perpetually chase.

Hoping to recapture

that one fossilised moment

cemented in a globe

of perfect amber light.

She did not then know that

it will always be out of reach.

Two : Souls

I wonder what a soul looks like

if you were to look at it from the inside.

If you could enter it like a chamber.

(Or would it be a maze?)

Would snippets of your life and loves

play out in front of your eyes?

Or would it be a kaleidoscope

of colours and light?

If it is the former

I’m glad no one can see,

into the bits of violence

and grey alleyways

inside of me.

If it is the latter

I hope it would play out

in shades of purple and white

which would cancel out

all those things I left behind.

I wonder if it matters,

if there are bits of dark,

if the holes that have healed

would somehow still show through.

Or if it’s still intact.

Despite.

I’ve heard that they’re resilient.

These things that we call souls.

Three: Memory

In January

we drove north, as far as we could go

until the petrol ran out.

Swam in forest pools

and skimmed stones along the surface.

I found a piece of crystal

shaped just like a heart.

And we wondered how it got there.

We took it home and I put it in a little box,

next to the love notes

and that little paper crane.

In winter

I imagine we will sleep for weeks,

buy pizzas,

and rent black and white films.

And find a little box

at the bottom of the wardrobe.

And wonder how it got there.

Four : You and Me and All of Us

Inhale.

Don’t stop.

Running.

Don’t stop.

Loving.

Stop waiting to exhale.

We only have the now, baby.

Forget about the broken glass,

and the towel you left at the beach.

Baby, we’re here.

Baby, we’re alone.

And, baby, you’re perfect.

To me.

Right now in this light,

and the way you’ve grown your hair.

Don’t give up.

It’s natural,

the way that we are.

Ceaseless action.

Inevitable failure.

And maybe it’s not such a shame

that we all became

such Fragile Broken Things.