By: Zahava Rothschild

Splinters of spilt glass pour soundlessly over my

poor spiritual form body spilling over a prayer book

the bumps of the Wall push against my skin,

papers, splinters of paper splayed on my shoes

the glass glinting red in the

sunlight, the redness dowsing

my shoes like spilt blood

the shards of a shattered heart

poured from an abandoned barrel labeled

“bent hearts” stored on God’s thrown-side for sifting

but forgotten—

spilt by an abandoned kick of a heel,

and I, feet dowsed in their blood,

pour my weight against the cracked surface

the bumps pushing against my skin,

I pray.


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