I'm collecting the handles of broken coffee mugs
off the decades of my speckled kitchen floor.
They're scattered like broken ribs
of a beast with no eyes
and hardened play dough tongues.
I'm using the handles as a coat rack 
to hang all the times
I've missed the paper lanterns on the porch
we never had and the mud puddle
in the yard where the battle ship
sank on the fourth of July.
I played taps. 
I'm making a scrap book held together
with marshmallows and chocolate squares
I couldn't eat anymore--
finger sticky on the pages--
I'll insert the images of everything
in between. Everything that we had
missed while we were too busy listening 
for how many fireflies would 
commit suicide that night.
I'm making a mirror from the pieces
of fragments and fingernails of
broken glasses and mason jars--
waiting for it to yield a 
reflection of something or someone 
we had all once known.