The Bucket

Leave it for later.

It'll fit better after you've taken off your arms. Mapping the slope of the mattress by the thrust of your sleeves.

I had captured the broken bottle in the bucket, but bits of glass were all I had. Everything once inside it slithering down the sidewalk toward roads still swimming in rains I'd never touch.

Leave it alone he stressed. As I picked at the edges of the scab. When the first spits of red appeared I knew he was wrong. It wasn't time to heal yet.

I'll be strong again once I'm through being weak.

I'll leave it. For as long as I can.

The bucket in the meadow. With all those holes in it.