The first clumsy swing
is glancing and weak.
It pecks a tiny nibble from the porcelain
and bounces the sledgehammer.

Alone, I hear my father:
(“Whatever you do, keep your ankle out of the way.”)
Alone, I hear my uncle:
(“It’s a lever; it needs to pivot.”)

I spread my stance,
bend an elbow,
slide a palm.

I imbue the dead weight
with my own life.
I bear down and burn biscuits
into an energy
traveling across the wooden shaft
and coming to a restless presence
at the far fast end of the hammer.

It accelerates,
dividing through infinities
until it breaks a whole united moment
into a Before and an After.
Uncountable atoms
line up along biffrocating fissures
and choose their association
among the thousands of shards and splinters
which clatter against drywall
and tinkle upon the linoleum.

I am unprepared
for the way the iron chunks apart
like wet cardboard.
I am surprised by the interior ripples
which betray the tub’s origin as a poured object.
Most of all I am stunned
to bear witness
to the past becoming irreparable,
prophesy igniting outward into truth.

There will indeed be a new tub, and a new bathroom.

It is the past itself that lies shattered on the bathroom floor.