Notes About The Poem
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Curators of Cracks Left Open
Always the world splinters—
the world breaks, fractures,
yet we lean into the cracks,
as curators, as keepers,
guardians of each other’s troubles
We gather the fragments,
hidden deals, relics, left-overs.
Embers still warm from the hearth.
Praying to self, I was near you once,
and it mattered, it burned,
it endured, it lasted, and mattered.
In the prance of happenstance
uncertain, trembling, raw, delicious,
we shuffle our scarred tokens,
knurled with abraded edges,
blurred and charred—
still radiant, still reflective, alive.
Laughter bends into mirrored halls.
Mirror on mirror aligned;
none showing the same viewpoint,
a shifting, stuttering constellation,
echoing a thousand selves
crying out together in reflection.
We are more than simply ourselves.
We are the harvest, the gathering.
We are the constellation.
A mosaic of cracks, left uncovered.
Where we let the light crawl in.
We are a threshold, an opening.
Where the light breaks in—
through the doorway
cherished as broken,
not worth fixing, nor mended.
Never broken enough,
Never done enough.
The door is broken.
Let the light come in!
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