Nancy Takacs

Morning. A brave pink     sky glowering
                to violet

Desk slathered in      yellow pencil, yellow paper,
                yellow cup.

A photo of a bridge, the hug.      The eraser
                so malleable.

I can’t climb stairs      the way ivy does,
                be a wind chime      in a temple.

I’m the widening split      in the gray vase,
                I won      when my mother died.

She’s the unraveled
                red-beaded purse      on my study wall,

who refused      the complicated sewing,
                refused      manipulation.

I’m the inmate whose crimes always follow,