There’s a technique in Japanese ceramics,
where a shattered object
is glued together with gold.

In other cultures, other communities,
they would pick up the large pieces,
careful not to cause any cuts, any more harm.
They would take an empty trash bag, place
the pieces in.
Then, grab a broom, sweep up the crumbs.
Brush their hands off when they’re done.

The bag would be *******,
left outside until the garbage came on
Tuesday.

But not this time. Not with me.

I was shattered, left to fly away with the wind.
I’d been destroyed, most of myself sturdy and
strong,
but no longer together, cracked and
dismayed,
a vase thrown against a brick wall.

But slowly, I was lifted up onto a pedestal.
My bigger pieces were cherished, my dusted
flaws wiped away.

With love, I was recrafted,
my broken parts held together with gold.

A gold made of love.
A gold made of friendship, and belonging,
and home.
A gold made of you. A gold of togetherness.