My mother’s voice 

Gets caught in my head

Like a fragment of a stolen lullaby 

Or shard of glass or porcelain 

From a broken plate

Partially covered

In the pattern that repeats in an endless circle

Around the plate’s edge

My inner ear runs its finger along the sound

The rough edge

The dips and rises in tone 

She’s always spoken in such melody

And the texture

Will never stop being the surface upon which my entire being longs to come and rest

My infinite home, whilst the houses come and go

I hope this fragment that has found itself stuck in my head tonight never finds its way out

As I imagine someday I will need it