Morning. A brave pink sky glowering
Desk slathered in yellow pencil, yellow paper,
A photo of a bridge, the hug. The eraser
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,
I’m the inmate whose crimes always follow,