We were pieces of china,
determined to assemble ourselves.
How I would have liked to know how to put one piece of you back
where it belonged, a hard pigtail maybe, or a pale pink toe;
I was unable to find my hands in our rubble.
Now that my dust has become pieces,
my white fingers a delicately unified hand,
and I am more doll than shell,
you have disappeared.
I cannot touch even the pieces of your shiny forehead,
cannot see your ceramic eyes, cannot lift my ragged arms
to rest them on your limp shoulders.
As love turns my dust into china,
I see more clearly why I loved you: that
I wanted to be like you.
Our souls were sewn together like a doll skirt,
before I had a body to wear it on.