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The slate black sky. The middle stepof the back porch. And long agomy mother’s necklace, the beadsrolling north and south. Brokenthe rose stem, water into drops, glassknob on the bedroom door. Last summer’spot of parsley and mint, white rootsshooting like streamers through the cracks.Years ago the cat’s tail, the bird bath,the car hood’s rusted latch. Brokenlittle finger on my right hand at birth–I was pulled out too fast. What hasn”tbeen rent, divided, split? Broken the days into nights, the night skyinto stars, the stars into patternsI make up as I trace themwith a broken-off bladeof grass. Possible, unthinkable,the cricket’s tiny back as I lieon the lawn in the dark, my harta blue cup fallen from someone’s hands.
