VSA arts of New Mexico — online gallery: Mary McGinnis

Pick Up The Broken

Pick up the broken pieces and hold them —
the dead child, the dry sound,
the brick that was worn away by water,
the untagged cup of ashes.
The dry child, the dead letter; the medicine bottle
without a label, read and throw over your left shoulder.
Shake and mail, untie and make haste,
put back together then separate carefully —
the green wood, the black edge, the appointment
rescheduled. Hold and undo, lick and dream,
breathe and put to rest. The dry sound can live
on nothing if it has to. The wood will go up and out
once struck by a match.
Break though the old lesions and let them go.
After the first stage of pain, there was a place where
nothing and everything mattered equally —
numbness came like a witch hazel compress
to smooth out the forehead. I welcomed numbness
and tickled her like an uncle would. Then as the old stones
broke, I let the chirr of a bird in.
I moved toward the bird and distributed the ashes
as requested. I started a dishwasher
for the first time, started that curious and secret
heart beating again.
When I needed to hold something,
I held the part of me that was broken.
Here, along a new edge,
hold it together, now hold it apart;
sit on a bridge, opener closed;
so much of us will do what we can:
will re-do and fold over,
will repeat. If you need to hold something,
hold the part of me that is unknown to you.