by Ben Koch

photo © Ben Koch

When it shatters I’ve noticed

shards spray like shrapnel

across the chest and into the gut,

lodging into moist corners

and organs here and there.

Every breath, turn of body

giving pangs, incisions

that ooze some invisible

soul-blood with the scent of cinnamon

from dreams you don’t remember.

I wonder how these glassy remains

ever leave the system:

in a slow dagger-crawl

though my gut,

looping the long wind

of my intestines,

down my urethra,

finally clinking

into toilets




Or do they settle into

layers of memory flesh

as gem-like splinters,

or the scattered bones of a lost

and forgotten mythical beast,

the kind they’ll mock you

for believing ever existed?

This poem appears in The Frequency of Whispers,

a published collection of Ben Koch’s poetry.


About bensten

Teacher, writer, blogger and spiritual practitioner. Managing editor of

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