IN PRAISE OF SHARDS

1 5 R I N P R A I S E O F S H A R D S G R A C E S C H U L M A N From far away I saw a low carved thing awash on shore, a corpse, stripped nude, lying among chipped shells and stones, bone-white at noon, a woman, one arm outstretched, the other gone, legs splayed, hacked at the ankle. But no. Closer, just driftwood, a tall cedar, branchless, scoured of its stringy bark. Unlike Aphrodite, leaning in marble, hands snapped o√ over time, long fingers lost, this wood sculpture, carved by an unseen maker with the turbulent sea for gouge and mallet, was nameless and began with missing parts. Only the pelvis was intact, skin smooth, unsplintered by the harsh ride, and hinting at other wholenesses, inviting me to imagine the cut extended arm in prayer, and shape the head to speak or sing. I came for answers, asking a cracked shell: Why does the mind reach for completeness when the fragments are all we have? My mother’s note. I found it in her jewelry case after she died, ‘‘These are real pearls, they . . . 1 6 S C H U L M A N Y [the next line blurred].’’ See her at her table writing what she could never say without noticing I had not caught their flame. The ropes are gone. The image is what stays. ...