things that are already too broken to fix,
& the moment you touch them,
they fall apart even more—
objects that crumble at the slightest pull.
today, a city breaks,
today, a house,
today, a family,
today, a mother,
today, a father.
in the stationery shop, Nana twinkles
from inside her little box.
the doll my mother made has tangled hair,
its neck stiff & hard to turn.
i never threw it away—
the doll whose name i forgot long ago.
i wonder when it will start to wear down,
while Nana keeps twinkling & dancing in the box,
& i hold on to everything.
a newspaper drops with a soft thud at dawn,
& i know you’re somewhere asleep
waiting to stretch with the morning light.
today, a family breaks,
& the dolls i make—
one by one, their edges start to tear.
i feel my lips, my ears, my hands
folding in slowly, bit by bit.
