Mending Poems by JE Misz

A Blessing for What’s Broken

 

The stripped screw,

the cracked plate,

the too-bent wire,

the hanging zipper,

baptized cell phone,

frayed ends and beginnings,

tilted shelving

too fragile to move,

the wobbled chair,

limbs and bones and hearts,

splinted and grafted and tied,

like torn pant seams,

exposing everything you’ve longed to hide.

For the days in which you’ve tried

to fit meaning into this malaise,

like water through a busted pipe.

For the times in which you’ve noticed

that not every fragment broke open fits

into this mosaic this moment.

For when the battery dies, and there are

no other remotes to collect from.

For the times it cannot be fixed,

and for those that it can.

May you recycle what’s possible

and marvel at all that was made

and can never be used again.

For it was all once loved, once held,

and that’s how all things break.

And that’s how all things are mended

back together, too.

For Anne

She never liked going places.

She would rather get drawn into the echoes

of our home, sprawl to the corners of our bed,

and sing to the tune of half-forgotten memories.

She never saw anxiety as a cage,

but as an untrimmed tree whose

branches she loved to climb.

I would try to call her down,

tell her, “The ground is firm,”

but she really didn’t mind

the view behind the branches.

It’s not that I wanted to go out more,

but I wanted others to know the universe

behind her smile, to travel the lightyears

in her eyes, then maybe they would understand

why I stayed home, too.

So when she asked to go out the door,         it was

as if the wind had blown off all the leaves –

exposing the bare, fragile limbs underneath.

I knew it was serious.

She never liked going places,

but she tried to leave too soon.

She couldn’t stay in our home,

told me to walk beside her,
sit on the corner of her bed,

and watch her go.

In a world too big for her to explore,

it seems so small without her.

If I could, I think I’d be a little less

hurried, follow her impulse

to stick around, and breathe shallow –

ready for the exhale.

  For the Child We Will Never Have (Jubilee)

You’ve got your mother’s eyes

and her innocence, too.

A little too quick

to light up a room.

Like a candle,

you flickered 

in and out

of the womb.

You were wanted.

You should truly know you were wanted,

like a picked flower, like a bouquet.

We were your vase.

We held you,

even if you could never feel it,

even if we could never feel you.

You were there –

as real as your name,

as real as a poem.

We spoke your existence,

breathed your life from out of the dirt,

pulled you from out of our ribs,

and made you ours.

You were never perfect.

Even dreams have flaws –

most of which is that they are immaterial,

but you had others, too.

You are more crass than your father,

a little too blunt,

a little too vulnerable,

               too risky.

I worry the world was not ready for you.

It was too long a wait for upheaval.

You dared to inspire my revival.

When I look into your eyes,

I see your mother.

I see your future,

and it’s bright.

It’s so damn bright

that I can’t see anything behind it.

I want to,

but it’s just too. damn. bright.

I wrote you a letter

to tell you of every time

my heart beat for you,

and how proud I was to know you.

I wrote you a letter

to tell you all of the things

I’ve always wanted to hear,

to whisper to you when the quiet

screamed too loud.

I wrote you a letter,

but I don’t know where to send it.

So I tucked it under my pillow,

folded it into my wallet.

I carried those words,

because all you ever were

was words, but so is Scripture.

You, darling, are Scripture –

this holy something

I can’t explain.

I want to evangelize.

I try to tell them about you,

but they don’t know you.

They can’t feel you tugging at their shirt –

don’t recognize your voice

calling from the other room.

They can’t see your mother’s eyes

and every piece of you

trapped behind them.

Your mother tells me that

you have my smile.

And if I squint in the mirror,

I can almost see you.

You’re just right there.

I know it.

An Almost Perfect Blessing

For every clouded sunrise,

each hang-nailed rainbow,

the smeared-ink greeting,

or mangled embrace.

For the rimmed-out putts,

the off-centered bullseyes,

like near-ripened avocados

that are a bit harder to swallow.

The sleeted Christmas,

the bittersweet chocolate,

that divine flaw.

Each time you color

outside the lines, or

drive through yellow lights

bound within them,

may your fog-veiled views,

like stained glass,

guide you to stories

crafted and blurry.

And may the off-key harmonies with sharp-stringed instruments

lead you to sing along in unison, and dance

flat-footed, stumbling as you go.

For it is on uneven floors that we learn to balance

and hold ourselves upright.

So may you seek the lessons

you all but understand,

and may you rejoice

that beauty can come

in the ideal blemishes

that leave us wanting for more.

J.E. Misz is a clinical social worker and poet based in Goshen, Indiana. Much of his poetry intersects on topics of spirituality, mental health, and justice issues. He has a self-published chapbook entitled, and we walk: confessions of faith, hope and love available on Amazon, and Fables Bookstore in Goshen. He also has a forthcoming poetry chapbook on the Israel-Gaza conflict that will likely be available in early 2025.