On Fixing Things
I tap-smashedóby mistake?ó
our bedroom window, and rational-
ized it as a large weep-
hole that winter, for a while, at least,
until the mist from the ends of
the earth gathered there, and till
glass icicles slivered into our toes
and fingers too many times
to ignore any longeró
Do we get the new pane cut
to be slightly larger or smaller,
how to remove the old sharp shards
with their dangerous forget-
fulnesses, and how will we fit
in the glaze and points? This is the kind
of thing your dad knew without thinking,
but he's dead now and can't tell us a thing.
Even worse, it's Sunday, the one day
we have to rest as well as work, so . . .
Time to wrestle with the new glass
at long last, and I wake up early,
start to shave: with a swift, near-
knowing stroke, his old razor deftly
measures a long crisp cut across my neck.
What will stop me now from bleeding
clear, sharp air? How can an inch
of trauma measure eternity, ever?
Who was this saint of glass?
Black Sparrow Books
Copyright © 2012 by Don Share
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission