The Small Death

by Erin Croy

I thought I said love. Maybe
I said death.

I have only been speaking
this incomprehensible language now
nearly three decades. Maybe longer.
It is worse than German.

I should grow used
to it like the tree along my street
with three split tops. It could not decide
which sun to go toward. You do not know it;
you have never been here.

I think it is a blue spruce
like the one I was taller-than, then
not-taller-than, in my parent's yard, because the needles have a blue cast
like a heart.

Do you understand me
if I say when you broke
all those dishes,
I would have minded neither
the shards in my back,
nor the scars?

I have had some thoughts this morning.