Serve It On A Blue Plate Poem by Kirby Wright

I will trip and fall
Through glass shower doors,
Blood and shards scatter.

Two shards
Bounce into the toilet.
A third finds the sink.

The drain washes
More and more of me away
Under the spurting shower.

I will survive the stitches
And see a woman
Standing in the doorway,

Hands on swollen hips.
She is my woman, I think.
Her eyes become a path

To the dangerous present.
A baby cries in her womb.
I hunger from losing blood.

She slices a hunk of moon,
Serves it on a blue plate
The stroke of midnight.