We birth a thousand
destined broken things:
chair legs detach from their seats under
the weighted repetition of sitting cloth
itself threadbare from
the rubbing of muscle.
We glue together the
blue China fallen in grief.
The silver nails of the crib are
reserved for our rusty coffins.
We mend the holes
of our tattered souls.
We reattach old soap specks to new
and shape them into a bath ark.
The fallen pecans and apples are
hoarded for the sweetest pies to be.
The broken necks of pollards
make our most savory stock.
The new rug turned dirty is beaten
until dust flies like stars.
We shut the curtains in the
afternoon to cool the room.
Mothers iron, singing in their reverie,
folding neatly, stacking all on the chair.
They listen for the passing mail car
so they can mark the new catalogs
with the dreams of their families
cruising to a distant, distant land.
Everything under our houses is just
the dust of every housecleaning before,
the joy of parents knowing their children
will move out and be blessed
to reach their Jesus year and know
the sanctity of resurrected dust.