A Poem by Anna Waterhouse

44
by Anna Waterhouse

Our country, ‘tis of
            cracked and broken
           glass

that we lift
            with tender fingers
bit by jagged bit

            carefully
           (carefully!) we
lay the shards down

edge by edge and
           side by side
until the faces
           mirrored there
           hopeful, wary, longing,
yours and mine

            splinter
              merge,
           and then — at last!
                      align.