July 2, 2020
July 2, 2020
by Taije Silverman
Then happiness became an egg that broke across our table. Fragments of shell through which yolk pooled to placemats: bright goopy gold that filled loose napkin folds as if all I could wish for from luck. My three-year-old pulls himself up alongside to mash peas on his tray and meow at my hand and command time to follow and stay. Can I have that for a minute, is what he asks now about my wallet, or a ball, or an eraser, so he can bring them like a word between his lips. Will you stay with me for a minute, is what he whispers every evening, and then whispers, One more minute while he stares at a bar on his crib till his eyelids collapse. The minute is a smell of smoke. A texture of leaves in a barrel of flame, the rasp of a match in late sun. Just one, but the days pass in cages for clouds, or for wayward balloons… a minute’s the sound of the egg as it breaks but its fragments still cleave to the origin shape. That’s a mebble, says my son, about everything. We sit at the table and count out the ways, our three lucky stars, our ten lucky stars, we add them to how many snowflakes it takes to transform the back yard to a shell. We wanted the mebble, the mebble was over, the mebble was all we now had.
"Mebble," by Taije Silverman. Used by permission of the poet.