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Is my bare foot cut because of a single glass sliver.
Or is my foot lacerated because I was too distracted
to put my shoes on or do a careful job of sweeping.
Is my blood now on the floor because she said we were through.
Am I now in pain
because I did everything to drive her away
or because she did everything to make me want to drive her away.
Was it her seeing her father in me and my seeking my mother in her
or some permutation or combination of such passions
that doomed us to disappointment and anger.
Or was it simply a reflex of my arm
that threw the bottle on the floor.
Or is all this bleeding, this painful wound, this cut flesh
simply the result of a careless broom that jostled the glass shards
away from the dustpan and towards me,
as I tried to sweep the shattered wreckage away.
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