Living With the Broken Glass
Living With the Broken Glass ©2001 by Juliet I. Spitzer
There is blood in our coffee
in our champagne and potatoes
In our celebration dinners of lemony meringue
There is blood in the purified and pristine pools of water
On the jeans and the sweatshirts and the high-performance cars
When we dare to open up our eyes, we see we’ve gone too far.
There’s a kind of resolution that a mother comes to at that point
When it becomes way too clear that she can fight no more
To protect her babies from the storms that soon will overpower her
The child suffers with her, and this she can’t endure.
What on earth can cause a woman tired from laboring a newborn
to turn to someone she just met and beg him with her eyes?
“Please take this precious child, the one I prayed for years to see
I can’t give her a life with me, no matter how I try.”
A mother takes a blade and cuts a shape into her baby’s flesh
And dabs at the wound until the running blood has dried.
In the hope that if they meet again she’ll know her baby by her scar
and the child will see herself in the tears her mother’s cried.
But every now and then the efforts of a mournful mother
Are met with hands that seem outstretched from above,
And a child has a chance to live and grow in safer places
Where she learns the meaning and the might of a poignant act of love.
Though there’s blood in our coffee
and our clothes and celebrations
There are also acts of kindness sprouting up and out each day
and the only chance of balancing the horrors and the tragedies
is to gather up the broken shards we find along the way. Yes, the only chance of balancing the horrors and the tragedies is to follow the path of love to guide us on our way.