Alice Coltrane, her harp, fills in the cracks of meWith gold. The Japanese call it Kintsugi.Where the vessel broken, only gold will permitIts healing. Its history. It's How the Stars UnderstandUs, lemon flowers on the skin of the earth,Mosquito filled with the blood that sirens its fat,Long life. Who isn't dying to leave this house,To go masked only in the shadow of one's animal-Breathing, lonesome, unprotected, knowingNothing lives as foreignness or death,That the black dog with the sword in his mouthPassing from house to house will not bring its itch,Its ticks and locks clogging our lungs, a permanentQuarantine—nothing that a little goldMelted to ichor and spilled into the veinsWon't seam. Everything is a blue divergenceOn a harp, the red bells in the purpleCrepe myrtle this morning forgettingThat soon they will be the corpses the springTree kneels to observe. No, no, they rememberAs everything dying remembers its mother'sName. Say your mother's name. Not for powerBut for the glimpse of power, to be moreThan a hesitation, gold filling in the cracks,A window thrown open for no other reasonThan to continue a blue feeling, nothingNeeded other than this devotion to darkness,A Fire Gotten Brighter, my daughter holdingMy small name in her mouth, light-brokenBeloved, my daughter—a window thrownOpen—her voice, gold filling in the crackedBasketball court of me, announcing allNature, all nature will be dead for life soon.