The Bowl of the Sky

When my mother died she broke
the bowl of the sky; I stretched
a soft cloth across the gap,
covered my nakedness, my rage.

The limits of that gesture
were slowly revealed as all things are,
but tell that to me then.

I knew hot tears, nights spent wandering
clad in glittering pieces. I fell asleep at dawn.

From then until now I didn’t recognize
what moves above my head as living:
birds, bats, stars, comets. All arrive
and depart, describing arcs.

I trace their paths
with charcoal
on butcher paper.