in the light I scatter
far-flung like glass beads across a wooden floor
pulled homeward with long needle strokes--
my hopes bound up in fresh stitches
and tightening seams.
it bespeaks a labor of love
that an empty cistern might produce water
that a clay pot might not end broken
you know the inner workings of my heart
which we understand to mean faith, or weakness:
you could pull a single thread
and all my quiet places would unravel--
you could tuck the loose strings back into place
and make me like new--
you could add buttons that shine and glisten
like fish scales in the river--
you could sew on patches that become improvements,
you could make me better
(but to err is human
and to err means,
now and again,
to take up the scissors.)
so stand up tall and proud,
because you hold a privileged position
and this, at least, is a beautiful thing:
you could never have injured my heart
if I had never opened my unmarked skin, my cage of rib bones,
and sewn you inside.
