Mending

For once, I am not thinking of a place
so much as of not-here, not where
we stutter like a knotted thread through
cloth until we stop fast. What holds
us is a temporary weave at best. I know
that now. I am anchored in. I risk
cracking in the center or breaking
in half. It comes with the territory—
so frequent, so necessary. The things
we need the most are most often
dropped. I could be lost, could be
replaced with something from a card,
something the right size. Just find
the cobbled nexus where I used to
stand and slot the new one in. (I’m
sorry. I know you’re thinking of
the difficulties.) I could slip between
the floorboards or roll along my
edge. I could come to rest in a corner.
You will never even know I’m here.