This poem is a circle:
  		                       a forward call
 				                                      a landing pad
						                                                made from what co
						                                                uld be called waste. 
 	           
						                                                A nest, or bed, wide
						                                                open – no questions 
 				                                      – just sheets
  		                       sliced back in
her pitch of place. Lo

						                                                                        ve means finding
						                                                a way to hold you:
 				                                      through words we
  		                  whisper ‘round worn
  		                  worlds; through find- 

  		                  ing frets for fingers,
  		                  beads to turn, a pinch
 				                                      of texture to grasp 
						                                                on to. Such simple 				                                                                   
						                                                                        solidity, both rare 

and maybe just too
  		                       tough to be seen
 				                                      through. I never
						                                                wanted to mother. 
						                                                Told myself a home

						                                                was fragile space. 
						                                                Told myself to never
 				                                      be in one; sense 
  		                       says to fear the   
thing that breaks. I 
						                                                                        
						                                                                        hear that; but also
						                                                the mattress creak
 				                                      and voices speak
  		                       -ing through the night. 
  		                       These memories ripe 

  		                       and slabbed in me. A   
  		                       base line for my heart, 
 				                                      the call-in from a  
						                                                past that warns: no 					                                                                     
 						                                                                        comfort without we.