from Svalina Svalina

by Zachary Schomburg

You peek before the prayer is over.
There is nothing else you can do.
There are no miracles.
Nothing is amazing.
The pieces of the mug your mother drank from hovers.
One of the pieces looks like an arrowhead.
One looks like a bird with no wings.
One like a crane trying to take off.

It sounded like you said attaching a self to the wall.
It looks crooked.
Yr neighbor walks in with yr t-shirt on.
He tells you about re-math.
But you already know all about re-math.
He gives you a problem.
Ten, you say.
You both nod yr heads until your necks ache.
You suddenly remember your winter coat.
You wonder where your winter coat is.
There’s dust everywhere.
It’s like dunes in the desert.
It really did sound like you were saying self.
Like, the self falls.
Like, nailing in the self.

People are all made of glass.
They can see through walls.
If there’s not a law, there should be.
My only hope is that you have shoes.
It’s an hour past the glass hour.
Stars are scraping against the sky.
Tiny triangles of glass are in our blood.