I believe love is the glue that holds the world intact.
I believe in the temporary bond of Post-It notes,
the L-5 bus driver who took me out of the cold,
the wet, whose hands were God's, delivering me
to the promised land. Though I believe promises,
and our lives, are bound to come undone.
I believe in Duco's cement. It smells blade sharp,
dries on your skin like it's peeling down to
raw bone. I believe in the glue of your bones
against my own. I believe in the glue librarians use
to bind books, I believe in the invisible glue
that binds them to their work.
I believe in hot wax on hard copy, putting
the newspaper to bed, in a union shop, many hands
hauling to a common song. I believe in going home,
and coming back to work. I believe in the solder
and acetylene torch. I believe in the jazz of steel on brass,
Ella and Louie delighting in a B-flat, be-bop scat.
I believe in the law of magnets: that opposites attract,
the alchemy of Muslim and Jew, thin and thick, of white
and black. I believe in clay slip used to cover cracks,
the broken leg that's wrapped in a cast, the aloe vera balm
on burns, the salve of words. I believe my salvation
is buried in the cell tissue of my scars.
I believe that gentle hands can know the knife, the cut,
the sword. I believe in Kali and her necklace of skulls.
I believe there will always be wars. I believe we are born
with the knowledge of our death, that we make it up as we go,
flying on a dream and a curse, hanging by the blues,
swinging from a high note of grace.
I believe when my daughter was Rumplestiltzkening
inside me, we spun the finest gold on earth.
I believe I bring my spider's silk with me
to bind me fast to this oh-oh, this no-you-don't,
this Devil-May-Care, this roll-of-the-dice,
this doo-wah, doo-wah, wind-blown world.
My kneecaps would make
great earmuffs for the
hear-no-evil monkey.
Squirrels want to curl
in my soft-sculpture hip sockets
and hibernate till spring.
Is it my sacrum or a flounder,
seduced by the worm on my tailbone?
Don't get hooked, I warn, unheeded.
The heart and lungs dangle
like fruit bat trapeze artists
in the net of my rib cage.
Only a hole in the center
of my skull, my rhinoceros nose
knows physics and won't apologize.
When I die don't cremate me, please.
Let the snake hoist me up
by my stirrup sitting bones
so I can fold flat
like an ironing board
and slack-clack-rattle in the breeze.
Copyright 2004, Rocky Delaplaine
In Glue We Trust was published in the most recent edition of Poet Lore.
The Shape My Bones Are In appeared in Wordrights.
For some it’s the dog leash.
For some it’s the chicken cage.
For some it’s hanging by the feet.
For some it’s wires to the genitals.
For some it’s lying bare on an icy floor.
For some it’s a knife against the knuckles.
For some it’s Allah’s name taken in vain.
For some it’s being raped by ten different men.
For some it’s seeing your only child shot in the face.
I will leave my body. I will fly to Baghdad.
I will find the cough that becomes a laugh.
I will tell you everything, I will tell you everything,
I will tell you everything you want to hear.
C, Joanne Rocky Delaplaine, 2006