glacial.

my brother and I, aged ten and twelve-
sitting at the kitchen table,
with a hammer raised in his white-knuckled hand.

my mother at work
(six days a week, twelve hours a day)
and home late: us adventuring,
exploring and creating,
we know freedom.

the first hit comes down upon the old device,
whose innards we longed to see.

the first hit comes down and I think,
for a split second,
glass.

and then the second hit, and the shards,
peaks glittering towards the ceiling,
are magnificent and terrifying
as they fall.

an iceberg formed in the middle of our kitchen
with its fluorescent lights and plywood floors.

and my brother and I,
unscathed and surprised,

the toy forgotten in lieu of this catastrophic beauty.