Broken Glass

What does broken glass mean?
Is it the beginning of something, or is it the ending?
I’m sure I don’t know.
I only know that it was a cappuccino bottle that broke, one of those little ones that come in six packs like they’re beers.
I didn’t even notice the bottle until it fell from a desk in the middle of lecture,
Sending crystal shards tumbling to all corners of the room.
The prof stopped speaking, which surprised me;
I’ve seen them push through cell phone rings
Through whispering
Through endless coughing fits
The broken glass did it, though.
Again, what does that mean?

Jon was up in a minute, slouch left at his desk,
Keeping his place in his open anthology.
He began to pluck dripping pieces of glass from the tile with his fingertips,
Crouching in front of the prof,
Who I think was trying to make a joke.

The girl who spilled was out the door by then.
I didn’t realize until later that she had cut her hand on a piece of her own former bottle.
Which might be ironic.

Something about the way Jon knelt and gingerly picked shining shards from their caffeinated graves
Made me jump up and offer to fetch a broom.
Will mumbled something about checking the Humanities Lounge
But I didn’t waste any time.
The lady in the Division Office showed me the janitor’s closet, and handed me broom and dustpan.
She was very kind.

Prof still wasn’t lecturing, which was still strange, but I supposed
That it would have been more awkward to sweep through American Indian Writers,
To scrape glass to the beat of Sherman Alexie.
I read a book once with a heroine who didn’t know how to sweep.
She had to be taught, and of course it was pretty romantic, because the boy who taught her was in love with her.
But how funny to not know how to sweep.
I’ve always hated it because you can never get all the dust
Or all the glass.
No matter how hard you try, there will be a line of dirt left when you are done
Particles too fine to be flipped into the dustpan.

Today I see no glass glittering in the corners.
Jon’s back in his seat,
And I’m back in mine,
And the prof is speaking again.
And all I can think is how strange of a morning that morning was,
And how it certainly must mean something.
But for all the drafts I’ve made of this narrative,
For all the deep romance and tragedy I’ve tried to pull from it,
I can’t decide if it’s only beginning to mean something because I want it to
Or if it was nothing from the beginning.