A bronze dancer sits above my desk;
she has a downcast expression and a long figure.
My grandmother always told me
that the sad dancer reminded her of me.
My grandmother died when I was young,
leaving me with not much more
than muddled thoughts
and that one bronze statue.
Her right arm broke off before her left;
on an angry winter night.
I watched as I threw my hard-backed copy
of Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations across my bedroom
I watched as she fell
the seemingly endless distance
from desk to floor
with a mute crash to the tile
Lifting her out of a box when we moved,
I noticed the crack in the back of her lower leg.
Bits of wire and exposed pink
interrupt the sanctity of her long figure now
There is still a bit of her left arm
as she sits above me now
I’m not sure exactly where or how
the rest of it went.
Sometimes I wish I’d payed more attention.