What’s Broken

The slate black sky. The middle step

of the back porch. And long ago

my mother’s necklace, the beads

rolling north and south. Broken

the rose stem, water into drops, glass

knobs on the bedroom door. Last summer’s

pot of parsley and mint, white roots

shooting like streamers through the cracks.

Years ago the cat’s tail, the bird bath,

the car hood’s rusted latch. Broken

little finger on my right hand at birth—

I was pulled out too fast. What hasn’t

been rent, divided, split? Broken

the days into nights, the night sky

into stars, the stars into patterns

I make up as I trace them

with a broken-off blade

of grass. Possible, unthinkable,

the cricket’s tiny back as I lie

on the lawn in the dark, my heart

a blue cup fallen from someone’s hands.