It is hard to write poetry when you are broken.
A hand here, a kneecap there
All strewn senselessly on the kitchen floor
You wait for a man with a toolbelt to stumble across the pieces of you and take pity
A Good Samaritan,
or even a Robin Hood
You wait for him to fish out his hammer and nails and
gift you new life
His reconstruction is haphazard at best, but it’ll do
Maybe it’ll be better this way, anyway.
Maybe the nails sticking out of your elbows
and catching on loose threads of other people’s sweaters will remind you
that you have to watch where you’re going, sometimes
Maybe the pipes moving the blood
from your heart to your head will rust
Just a little
Just enough to remind you that you are not invincible
Maybe the twig in place of your backbone will splinter
It’ll prick you when you take too deep a breath
When you get too comfortable
Maybe the plastic bags filling with air as you inhale
will only have half the capacity that your lungs did
They’ll remind you how ungrateful you were for the things that came easy
Or maybe the strings stitching your skin together
will act as better puppeteers than you ever could
Maybe the rope keeping your head on straight
will give you something to grip when you’re six inches tall
and standing on a globe in a second grade classroom,
tiny fingers sending you spinning
when you’ve only just gotten your feet on the ground
And maybe your tongue will be salvageable
You’ll be a mismatched mess with landfill ligaments
but your words will still be your own
Maybe you need to be broken.
Maybe somebody will fancy you a piece of modern art
They won’t quite understand you,
a man-made disaster of epic proportions
But when they see you in a gallery
and search for a placard to explain you,
You’ll tell them your tongue works just fine.
Maybe your words are enough.