apology to gretel

She drives off to get right with God: hooray
for her, but no god having I'll wait here,
back to the window, a splinter of glass
in each foot. Today in a stage-wife tantrum
I broke a plate on the kitchen floor
and never swept it up: see the white shards,
soft on the floor, like needles our late dry
Christmas tree shed on its way out the door,
like Hansel's crumbs to mark the safe way home.

My feet hurt, though yesterday Resik said
he lost both feet in the Bosnian war
and I, to show I knew some about war,
asked did he step on a mine: how callous
I can be, even with strangers. Later,
as if to prove I could have been ruder
I wondered if he'd lost his ankles too
and how his running shoes stay on.

David Weinstock

April, 2000 edition