Awake at night,
I heard the sky once.
Stars were cracking
in their cold jar of ink.
I held my breath,
while the earth
broke my heart —
There was no sound
under that one.

I knelt in a light dress
before the missing hand
the weight, borne,
I knelt for the father,
the lover, gone,
I knelt like a child
before a mathematical
problem — Nothing came.

And I still don’t know
what I miss the most
— an answer
to Cassiopeia’s frost,
or a hand that tends.