first thing I see
if I’m honest about it,
are the spaces and gaps,
the lacks and places that gape,
dark and hollow, the betweens
of what doesn’t meet, the not enoughs,
the worn aways, the cracks left
by the looted, the taken from,
jagged, just and unjust.
This gift for finding holes and rents
keeps me nervous,
keeps me keeping more than I need,
keeps me laboring over the fissures,
the childhood cracks unfilled
by all this grown love.
But looking more closely, I see mosaics
blooming from the collected broken fragments,
the seams between them make pictures
beneath my hands.
We are all in pieces,
but the pieces are all here.