The Shell I Picked Up in Ireland

Hang up the phone and your heart breaks.

Between Route Nine and the river, picking up the mail and visiting family. 

Cars pass as if people had anywhere to go.

Go anywhere and your heart breaks.

I cry in Goshen, cry in the post office and when somebody asks am I okay I say softly "I lost somebody dear."

Nobody is dead. Someone is dear.

Nobody is lost.

This broken heart reliving the breaks of 1988 and 89, when I really did visit Ireland, coming back so deeply broken I nearly died. 

You want to write and say "I forgot to tell you about the shell I picked up in Ireland and have carried with me ever since."

"You're just sad." "Out of sorts." "Away from Jesus but finding your way back." 

You have prayers to pray, poems to write.

A non-zero sum game to play alone mostly. Be conscientious now. Be reasonable. 

"Shit happens." 

You have this heart, and it is broken. 

Now what.