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THE SOUND AFTER


​SOMETHING BREAKS

JOHN CIMINELLO
 
Nothing you can do after the pieces shatter,
“not my fault” or “I had no choice”
sound like the beginning of a weak excuse,
a bad joke, or a round-about confession,
no rules in the universe can un-throw the pillow
when playing in the jurisdiction of coincidence,
and yet my grandmother is first to separate fact from fiction,
as she deciphers who’s lying least,
and after all, shouldn’t the oldest set an example?
she knows I have no monopoly on timing,
a step behind and a beat too slow for the punchline,
and only now I try to reassemble the pieces,
as if superglue can put together this string of
what ifs.

​Nothing you can do when some of the pieces are missing,
like why begin a game of dodge ball
in a living room with breakables like a precious Mayan ceramic bull?
or why throw pillows at younger brothers in pajamas
hiding behind sofas?
or how could the game point be worth more than
the protection of something of value to my mother?
a little sacrifice outside of time
could have gone a long way
to preserve the white lie of slow-mo football on our knees,
rolling around the family room floor,
lost in play until the final impact stops the clock
and places the entire field in
time out.
​
Nothing like a turn for the worst when everyone is having fun,
except my grandmother and the ceramic bull
now head and horns tilt upside down
beside its rear end, brown tail beneath the torso,
and a hoof or two on the rug under the walnut cabinet
RCA House of Sound,
with amplifier, turntable and speakers of high fidelity,
we sit youngest-to-oldest on the living room floor,
my grandmother’s stern Sicilian gaze interrogates
with silence to encourage self-examination,
a choice between the devil and the confessional,
sin and redemption, and yet our supreme worry is
how to break the news
to my mother.

Nothing like new rules for old stories when
the sound of breaking ceramic releases the mother of invention,
so like forensic archeologists we tape and glue the pieces
filling in the gaps with paste
then disguise the rest with brown and white paint until
the bull appears even more ancient though less Mayan than before,
and we rehearse and reinvent the opportunity to make it right,
to believe a fragile patch of forgiveness will hold when we confess
how her precious piece of art became a consequence of play,
and when she returns home to see the broken promises
of best behavior and no rough-housing,
she teaches us a lesson priceless and beyond our years
and not worthy of our father’s poor excuse of
boys will be boys.

Nothing prepares us for
the hurt look in her eye, the faraway gaze as if outside
the snow was speaking in an ancient language
telling her about the way of children and
mothers and precious objects on a shelf,
and she tells us in anger everything is broken,
promises, dreams, people,
she scares us seeing into the dark that way
as if losing her religion and then
my youngest brother—no older than 2 at the time--
tugs on her skirt and reaches up for a hug
a gesture of comfort, shelter, forgiveness
and in a whisper of faith, she says
what’s broken in this world comes together
in the next.

 

Picture

SEE ME, SAVE ME

​JAIMIE A. BARCHUS
Drawing
The Salal Review is published annually by the students of Lower Columbia College enrolled in Arts Magazine Publication. Copyright @2024 The Salal Review and the individual contributors. No portion of the publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the express permission of the individual contributor.
 
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