I carried, once, a window,
a clear pane,
a life that fit the frame--
her, house, the cats, the days,
a way
to stay
the same.

The storm came,
and after the storm,
the after remained.
I, left for dead,
left to mend--
what they set aflame,
alone,
ashamed,
unnamed.

To feel pain is to know.
To hear of pain is to doubt.
I spoke--
many watched the match strike,
the flame,
and turned away--
I learned what silence,
sounds like.

But some stayed. A mother called. A mentor read. Women held what I could not hold. God, if told, might say: mijo, I never left— you just learned to see a different way.

I am still a fragment,
yes,
but not in the dark,
not in the abyss,
not wishing to miss
the morning.
The pieces remain--
the pain,
the strain,
the years it took to name
what burned--

but the kaleidoscope turned,
and I learned:

the fragmented,
once the most shattered,
quite soon, encountered light,
their brokenness, so heavy then,
became the lens for sight,
living, they learned,
requires the night,
and so the fragmented write,
to one day,
maybe,
discover their pieces, indeed,
caught light.