Michael J. Kolb

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shards

the rear window shattered
a clean impossible note
and with it I broke
without sound

breath knocked loose
eye caught on glare
hands closing
on what had slipped

shards moved
inside me

a pulse flickered
something caged
inside the ribs

I touched my cheek

blood bright
with edges

not wound
not warning
but proof

I had scattered
still catching light

Michael J. Kolb is a poet, educator, and archaeologist based in Colorado.  He writes across disciplines, exploring nature, memory, and illness, asking what we carry and what we leave behind. His collection What Keeps Me Looking Out the Window was a finalist for the 2026 Press 53 Award. His poems have appeared in The Shore, Third Wednesday, ONE ART, Sky Island Journal, Eunoia Review, San Antonio Review,  Trampoline, The Ekphrastic Review, and elsewhere. He lives with his family and dogs where the mountains, shoreline, and changing weather continually shape his sense of place. 

Find him on Instagram at @michaeljkolb and on Substack at substack.com/@michaeljkolb.