in your thirties everything needs fixing. i bought a toolbox
for this. filled it with equipment my father once owned
to keep our home from crumbling. i purchased tools with
names & functions unknown to me. how they sat there
on their shelf in plastic packaging with price tags screaming:
hey lady, you need this!  like one day i could give my home
& everything living inside it the gift of immortality, to be
a historical monument the neighbors would line up
to visit even after i’m gone & shout: damn that’s a nice house!
i own a drill now, with hundreds & hundreds of metal pieces
i probably won’t use or use in the wrong ways but what
i’m certain of, is still, the uncertainty of which tools repair
the aging dog, the wilting snake plant, the crow’s feet
under my eyes, the stiff knee or bad back.
& maybe this is how it is—how parts of our small universe
dissolve like sugar cubes in water—a calling to ask us
to slow our busy breathing so we can marvel
at its magic. because even the best box of nails are capable
of rust. because when i was a child i dropped
a cookie jar in the shape of noah’s ark,
a family heirloom that shattered to pieces.
the animals broke free, zebras ran under
the kitchen table, the fractured lion roared by
the front door & out of the tool cabinet
i snagged duck tape & ceramic glue. pieced each beast
back to their intended journey.  because that afternoon
when my father returned from work i confessed
& he sat the jar on the counter only to fill it with
pastries. how the cracks of imperfection mended by
my hands laid jagged. chipped paint sliced across a rhino’s neck.
every wild animal lined up against the boat—
& a flood of sweet confections waiting inside.

may also kill them,
           but she had no great plans
                      to live happily ever after.

Today is all she could manage,
           that & the breathless sounds of Pres,
                      tamping down the day’s anarchy.

Twenty years earlier, her voice left her,
           so she quit smoking. When it returned
                      it was vibrating like a dusty contralto.

Today she smells facts:
           the air thick with tomorrow’s rain,
                      a slow leak in the basement.

The five shots of Jameson on his breath.

           His undershirt brushed with
                      someone else’s perfume, a scent
                                 she’d worn in high school—Shalimar.

Twenty years ago, on a dime,
           she’d have cut or shot him to clear
                      the air, but today is not that day.

Today she looks at her body 
           with some hesitation. It’s late
                      in the morning & the gravy’s
                                                gonna run thin tonight.

Will she miss the wanting, the having or the gone?