The Glass Jar – Poetry by Constance Woodring

Sometimes my foot bleeds because I step on the broken piece

in the corner where I sometimes sit,

sometimes sit, due to poor posture and lack of air and manners.

Everyone else thinks the air comes from the top,

but I drilled a hole in the side.

I put my mouth to it and suck in the cool morning breeze,

fill myself up, then sit and stare—holding as much air as possible so as not to burp and be in excess

of opinion.

But only one person saw the blood, I filled up the hole, so he couldn’t breathe.

But he, being of lecherous intent and unusual lung capacity, stayed on,

he wouldn’t die, he got in, he drank the blood.

And now I am airless and bloodless and alone with only him.

I watch and stare at my prism prison

and never see the light reflected in the glass sides anymore.

He says I should let my hair down, but it drags on the floor.

It has no purpose…only poor posture and manners.

And I am the prison guard and see no sharp object but him

and he keeps himself away from me…