Broken light bulbs at Kent State,
broken matchsticks, splinters, catching the sulpher and lighting the conflagration, broken soles,
a broken record,
broken stare, eyes darting away from fear and dispossession.
Lasso me, rope me, be gentle.
Carter wore more sweaters than you.
What’s broken is so subtle. It’s the way she doesn’t hear the sounds,
heart-big, tasering with blah and sighing — When will the home be done?
This next line must contain “Romper Room” or all else dulls.
The meat stains her hands when she tears at it. Why she smashed that plate, I don’t know, it had her son’s raspberries on it and she said it was domestic,
a disturbance, not a perturbation, but the ripple effect
down the line of generations, nobody said that.
They played it smooth and picked the pieces up.
They bought a new plate.