Broken Circle

Broken Circle

Because you understand connections
and circuitry
and closure,
I begged you to repair my circle today.

In a darkening kitchen that never saw my childhood,
I asked about my ancestors,
but you were more interested
in the leaky sink.

“Why do I dream
of heart-beat chants,
and fleurs des lis,
and buggies trotting by?”

You answered:
“Seven drops of water
have dripped from the faucet.”

Why do I envision
black-eyed spirits sobbing snowflakes,
and ancient chateaux suckling streams,
and shoo-fly pies swilling molasses?

“Eighteen drops
have fallen already.”

The light in the kitchen was growing dimmer.
The light in you eyes had faded long ago.

I pleaded for an answer:
“Who am I?
What ghosts have borne me?”

“Twenty-four drops,
gotta fix that damn faucet.”

I cried as my circle
crumbled, neglected,
as my past disappeared
down the drain.

–KTC