even if i found the exact stone

that broke the streetlamp's globe

i'd be unable to patch it up—

what was broken is always more

than what broke it.

(my mother sitting soft at the hard edge

of the bed eating an apple in silence

before becoming a mother again)

in the brighter glow of the broken globe

surged insects fall dead in black feathers.

i drop the stone. it's very hard

to get a grip on dirt nowadays.

the glow holds the inebriated chin

in a flaw of her dome— just one arm

through the window— only one finger

through the flesh.

~ ajay

1/5/2022