Braided Between the Broken

This morning apologies were falling        from the trees and the apples                  were being ignored.

There’s a chapter in our lives        where I tried to shred pages,                  where I tried to rewrite the tale.Let’s call that chapter, The Numbness,        or The Boredom, or the place where we forgotwe were alive.

That morning I woke up and wandered outside        onto the backtrail,past the No Trespassing sign into the arms        of an evergreen or a black bear. It didn’t matter                  who held me then; I was moss, the lichen,the mushroom growing on the fallen log.

No one expects perfection, except when they do,        which is always. Even you, king                  of the quiet, crashwhen I talk about my brokenness.        Cover up, your fractures are showing.

In my life I try to apologize for things I haven’t done        yet. Those are the bruised apples of me,                  the possible fruit rotting in the field.

Remember when I kept replaying melancholy?Remember when I opened our melody with a switchblade?

Rip out the carpet. Mow down the dahlias.Let’s ruin our lives . . .

It felt good to hurt then—        until it didn’t, until we were left                  with bad flooring, a gardenwhere nothing grew.

You’re asking about the next chapter        and the one after that. You’re asking                  what time I’ll be home and if I needa cloth to buff up my halo.

Let’s put a comma here.Let’s put in a semi-colon and think about        the next sentence.

I dream of erasers. I dream of whiteout,        I dream of the song where the pharmacistdoesn’t judge me for not being able to make it throughthe day without some sort of pill.