–Natasha TretheweyWe mourn the broken things, chair legswrenched from their seats, chipped plates,the threadbare clothes. We work the magicof glue, drive the nails, mend the holes.We save what we can, melt small piecesof soap, gather fallen pecans, keep neck bonesfor soup. Beating rugs against the house,we watch dust, lit like stars, spreadingacross the yard. Late afternoon, we drawthe blinds to cool the rooms, drive the bugsout. My mother irons, singing, lost in reverie.I mark the pages of a mail-order catalog,listen for passing cars. All day we watchfor the mail, some news from a distant place.
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