From an airplane window, I study
Earth’s fractures, its wounds:

mountains where plates buckled
and bent—collisions
labeled with fault
as if someone’s to blame;

the Great Salt Lake like a giant ache
with no outlet,
its water turning to tears;

fields blackened by summer fires;

the Columbia, a bright laceration
along the state line.


The clay of our bodies holds
its own history of rupture—
cells splitting
at the very start of us.

When skin is cut deeply enough
healing leaves a luster
on the raised flesh.


Silvered with sunlight, the river
reminds me of kintsugi,
the Japanese art of pottery repair.

Rather than discard a broken bowl,
they save the shards.
They fit each piece together
and trace the seams in gold.

An object of beauty: the mended bowl,
more precious
for its lightning marks
its gilded scars.