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Loose
Ends By Ken
Shiovitz 1/26/2003 Enduring table scraps of times past, or Anxiety-free margins of hope, loose ends are Terrifyingly cruel acts, too painful to revisit, And Godly calls to human possibility. One single end hangs from every newborn, Like the uncut umbilicus, Attached to unknowable mass of fissure and fold, Reservoir against challenges to come. When absent, loose ends can expose the poster child, Perfect display of impish cheeks, Promising buds of nose and chin, Framed by strands of silky blondness, Toes and fingers, Tiny replicas of later working machinery, Entire body free of flagging health, Of frost-burnt skin. Sweetly, the real child will offer the gift of a placemat, Sharply cut strips of construction paper, Interlaced tightly to define a checkered central plain, Upon which, life’s acts must be fitfully arrayed, Both ends of each strip protruding wildly, Bending, catching on every obstacle, But necessary, else the entire patchwork Would swiftly loosen and fall apart. However, the poster child will hold a finished mat, Edges neatly tucked back into the weave, A perfect gift for the unwary, Who want to believe in false images. |
