Glass Bangles

From his long travels in India he brought me glass bangles, red, blue and black bracelets, half of them broken in transit, another five or six snapped as I drew them carefully across the curve of my fingers and knuckles, one sliced a small bloodline on the back of my hand. I wore four bangles the first day, two black and two red. In the sun they were circles of light on my forearm, until one cracked, two broke off against my desk. Axound my wrist, one red circlet, on the window sill an assortment of glass curves that each morning I arrange, piecing together fragments into flowers, clouds.