in the hollows of throats.
A rip in the faded, threadbare apron,
caught up in the silver latch
of a safety pin.
A jigsaw puzzle laid out
with a missing piece:
that jagged chunk of brown wood
where a cut of blue sky should be.
But who wants those empty spaces
filled in with childhood horror stories?
who believed in the totality
of nothing--used to say,
it's sometimes better
to leave sleeping dogs lay.
The unrelenting quest for wholeness
can have its drawbacks, too.
Besides, one thing or another
will always be missing.
But the therapist--who reminds me
of the cat monster that eats tongues
and who, in reality, is a known gravedigger--
settles for nothing less than exhumation.
A child standing alone
in the middle of a dusty road,
crying after its mother
who has just disappeared
around the bend,
afraid to follow her
more afraid to stay behind.
Certainty slips like a broken pawl.