On Wishing He Had Said That From The Beginning

The glass too big for her hand slipped

From her grip and fell in slow motion

To the table striking on a tilt clipping

The bottom edge bouncing up and tumbling down

Onto the top edge settling after a rattle.

It didn’t break,

But

Milk spilled and splashed all over the plate of

Manwich sandwiches. She jumped back from the table

And screamed, “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it.”

A piece of broken glass flew toward him

Slashing across his body, back and forth,

Deeper, deeper till it sliced through his left ventricle

And blood gushed over the milk and the Manwich sandwiches and

Splattered across his daughter’s summer dress and face.

“It’s okay. It’s only milk.”  He wished he had said that

From the beginning.