The days when the flower pot shatters
because a gust of wind blows too strongly,
and I am left with dirt and ceramic
at my feet, my orchids gone,
I collect the shattered pot
in the palm of my hand,
avoiding the sharp edges.
I think about the Frenchman
serving tables, carrying dirty,
porcelain, holding the remnants
of a meal in his arms. When they
dropped
and everyone turned as if
they never heard glass shatter
or that shattered glass meant
the end of the world.
![](https://thenewjournalatyale.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/Screen-Shot-2023-09-21-at-8.07.05-PM.png)
Remember what he said.
As he bent over to pick up the big pieces,
avoiding the sharp edges.
La vie est anti-fragile.
It brings itself back together,
like skin,
suturing all its wounds.
Yet I still try to escape things I can’t see,
as if you can lose everything to air.
-Daniella Sanchez