CALL ME BELOVED

It’s not as complicated as we’re making it.
I think it always was supposed to be
all accidents, that we’re just spilled milk
and the sum of the tears that came after.

These arms can hold so much, you know –
each failure fuck-up fracture frailty falter,
fingers gently, carefully carrying each piece,
I’ll hold every single one patiently in place.

Tell me every way that you’ve broken; show me
your scars, bruises – I’ll reveal all of mine, the
cigarette burns, the scar raked across my nose
I got when I was three; all the ways I’ve bled –

it’s sacred, you know. We’re mosaics, queens
and kings of kintsugi, cracks shining golden
bright; each time we shattered is a sunburst.
You were never broken. We’re all stained glass.