How Narrative May Destruct Deconstruct Itself

this is the handful of marbles i shatter on the floor.
surely some arrangement must be made
of the mess. this is the glass the nurse sweeps
or surely you are not: a discarded thing,
must it go anywhere else but
the miscarriage my girlfriend had in highschool.
no, it was like that but please don't drop
your jaw. yes, i was, she was, willing to go along
with the accident, i broke, she said are we safe
and i didn't know. the child dead
less than a minute's chance to name it.
as brittle and and soft as a quail.
my girlfriend as erratic as the simile wailing
for something better. the child was not
about to unwrap the bow-tie of its throat--
it wasn't a wedding ring. it was not a wedding ring.
in shock--the doctors said--she was--
stay away. so it was. and i did.