Xylophone

I am the breaker of many things:

           the good China, zippers, ‘6’ keys, light bulbs,
my flesh,
my bones,
    
car parts, and pretty things on display.

I can hold them up
     in p i e
                c e
   s; and I have heard their respective sounds- the
popping-cracking-catching-

           splintering sounds.

All of my senses (I have lost them)
can touchhearfeelsee their
jagged edges, scar tissue,
  4, 5, empty, 7.

But I have never tasted it before this.

Breaking a home is foul in my mouth.
This is rising up from my center, traveling unnaturally backwards
through me, and resting there on nerve endings
that are usually partial to

the acidic.

This was not quick like every other broken thing; it did not go

fumbling fingers,
     drop, gravity,
         broken. It did no go.

Gravity was holding us up rather than pulling us
down. We
          did not defy
those laws. They only proved most effective, provided
us with goodbetterbest material
           when flipped-turned-r
   eversed (deserve

what we get). All the words have changed.
It is no longer two words merged to make one;
it is an awkward word (of the Greek) with two pairs of
consonants (x-y and p-h) making sounds

they shouldn’t make.