If I am made up of air and ancestors, their bones
and cells and lives
their pain, their goodness
their disregard—
whisked together in the womb, and fashioned
each day and moment a reshaping—seeking, failing
falling, concealing cracks
thick with palette knife
or finest brush

Then I am the broken sum of broken parts
chipped rim touched by tongue
leaches lead—
best to throw it out,
or get the glue

If I am made up of air and ancestors, their bones
and cells and lives
their pain, their goodness
their disregard—
whisked together in the womb, and fashioned
each day and moment a reshaping—seeking, failing
falling, concealing cracks
thick with palette knife
or finest brush

Then I am both One, and only, cherished
child of the stars, and held
even as my mothers’ arms cannot
holy, not in Salvation
but in essence,
like breath
whole and in pieces—
there’s nothing to fix