Tuesday, May 15, 2012

On Fixing Things by Don Share

Photo by Andrey Okonetchnikov 

I tap-smashed—by mistake?— 
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 longer—

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?

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