You take your glue, your
adhesive words, try to fix.
But you don't know whether it's four,
or five, or eight, or six,
or how many pieces remain.
But you try, you try so hard,
to fit them together again.
Even when, shard after shard,
you put them back
paste the edges, the seams;
you can still see the cracks
and gaps and spaces. Beams
of light would stab at you,
if there were any left inside.
Run your finger down the lines of glue.
Can you take any pride
in your work? It's probably
better that you see it all,
the uneven flecks, imperfectly
aligned edges, the scars. You stall,
for just a second, but continue
piece by piece to repair.
Because you have to.
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