I longed to kiss the world,
or perhaps cup the lovely broken
pieces (some call them nations,
others say they’re countries)
in my palm

and smooth them like I would
a newborn pup or a yellow hatchling,
hold onto them like I would a
dreamy whisper the color of
a shy sunrise

If I asked you, Papa, would you
give me these lovely broken pieces
(that have already mixed with the
pieces of your heart); you’re who moved
me fall in love with them

If I asked you, Papa, would you
give me your tender hands that are
great enough to gather and hold
all the pieces (some say they’re
nations, others call them countries)

If I asked you, Papa, would you
give me your faithful lips that
don’t cut or bleed when you kiss
the jagged edges and sharp slices
of these beautiful wayward pieces

Some say they’re nations, others
call them countries, but, Papa, you
call them your lovely pieces

If I asked, would you give me the world,
If I asked, would you give me to the world,
a graceful exchange