Unfold the map of fractures
and find your way.
Whose fault, these lines
drawn so deeply they plunge
like canyons inscribed
by the gentle, ruinous hands
of water? Even your body

is voluptuous with ruptures—
a patchwork of gaps,
all the once-guarded borders
made porous, welcoming
all travelers, no papers required,
no stingy citizenship strung
like sutures of razor wire
across the openings.

Come see: the narrow spaces
between the tree branches
glow with deep molten pink
and gold before darkness fills in
as promised. Tomorrow morning,

as promised, another day
will break itself open for you,
let its precious teacup tumble
from the shelf, offer itself to you,
again, as shards asking for

the kind of repair that recognizes
the beauty of the ruin and refuses
to disguise it: your patient, daily work
which unfolds a map of fractures,
showing the way
to the brokenness of home.

Liz Ahl
July 29, 2020