Bad Posture
Dibs on the broken chair,
the one with the slipped
disc in its lower back.
I know how to hold my
body while sitting in it,
how to allow for the bad
posture of beloved objects.
The fickle deadbolt, stubborn
in winter, easygoing in
spring. The drooling
coffeepot, whose chin
I mop with the yellow
towel with a charred
splotch in one corner.
The gleaming car with
one scratch in it, that car
calls to me. Not what is
wholly ruined. Not what
won’t run. But the chipped,
the scuffed. The runt.
The stuff that lets you see
how it has been touched.
Love it, Hannah. "The stuff that lets you see how it has been touched." It's the same with people, isn't it? Their honesty about their imperfections lets you know they've lived. And imperfect houses let you know they are a home, lived IN. Thank you for this poem on this rainy morning. Vulcan mind meld on this one.
ReplyDeleteAnother excellent poem, Hannah.
ReplyDeleteThese lines stand out: "No what is / wholly ruined. . . The stuff that lets you see / how it has been touched." Life really is all about the lived experience, brokenness and all.
I resonate with your Mom's comment but what also struck me is the idea of things having bad posture, not just people!
ReplyDeleteI love this, and I'm that way myself. Forget the perfect...give me the charmingly askew.
ReplyDelete