1607: What's Broken | Dorianne Laux
"What's Broken"
Dorianne Laux
The slate black sky. The middle step
of the back porch. And long ago
my mother’s necklace, the beads
rolling north and south. Broken
the rose stem, water into drops, glass
knobs on the bedroom door. Last summer’s
pot of parsley and mint, white roots
shooting like streamers through the cracks.
Years ago the cat’s tail, the bird bath,
the car hood’s rusted latch. Broken
little finger on my right hand at birth-
I was pulled out too fast. What hasn’t
been rent, divided, split? Broken
the days into nights, the night sky
into stars, the stars into patterns
I make up as I trace them
with a broken-off blade
of grass. Possible, unthinkable,
the cricket’s tiny back as I lie
on the lawn in the dark, my heart
a blue cup fallen from someone’s hands.
At sundown a few nights ago the rabbi spoke of light being holy, of the miracle of a flame burning for eight nights, of God's presence. I am remembering this now after the fifth candle, when the days are getting longer still, when my heart is empty and the tree-skeletons fade at sunfall. This is not all there is -- God will bring light, we will bring light, this is our mitzvah. We will be carried by the light, eight times longer than we thought we could. There will be sweetness, there will be sadness, there will be more.
I'd love you and be your catfish/friend
Dorianne Laux
The slate black sky. The middle step
of the back porch. And long ago
my mother’s necklace, the beads
rolling north and south. Broken
the rose stem, water into drops, glass
knobs on the bedroom door. Last summer’s
pot of parsley and mint, white roots
shooting like streamers through the cracks.
Years ago the cat’s tail, the bird bath,
the car hood’s rusted latch. Broken
little finger on my right hand at birth-
I was pulled out too fast. What hasn’t
been rent, divided, split? Broken
the days into nights, the night sky
into stars, the stars into patterns
I make up as I trace them
with a broken-off blade
of grass. Possible, unthinkable,
the cricket’s tiny back as I lie
on the lawn in the dark, my heart
a blue cup fallen from someone’s hands.
At sundown a few nights ago the rabbi spoke of light being holy, of the miracle of a flame burning for eight nights, of God's presence. I am remembering this now after the fifth candle, when the days are getting longer still, when my heart is empty and the tree-skeletons fade at sunfall. This is not all there is -- God will bring light, we will bring light, this is our mitzvah. We will be carried by the light, eight times longer than we thought we could. There will be sweetness, there will be sadness, there will be more.
I'd love you and be your catfish/friend