Wabi-Sabi

This is how we get from pain to perfect:
howl, gasp, grasp, swallow, bear.

Hour between dog and wolf, as a body answers sleep’s texts,
when everything bends around reality’s parabola.

Wabi-sabi, Japanese art, accidental crack in porcelain repaired with a shimmery glaze,
a scar to remember, visible line through the body’s imperfections.

Once the void begins to fill, it is no longer named
“emptiness.” Call it humble; call it Incomplete Completion,

Space for More Pouring,
Rose Bush Begging to Be Pruned.

Prune the bushes, and leave the spent hips lying in a pyre. Do the work
necessary to put the bowl back together. Inspect the seams. Look for holes

and patch them with a golden ache
to be so beautiful, so forgiven.

Bone Dice

When you forfeit your bones to the greedy knife-prone
When they fuse your joints, some parsimony of calcium
When they farm bone to form bone, when they carve you up
like tiny dice, when you gamble against the parity of fortune

that you’ll ever be whole again
When you open your skin to surgical precision, when your mouth
rushes forth a silent roar that’s never over or even hushed
When you prefer holding your game close to the chest

When you do not roll the dice
When instead you swallow the smooth bones whole, lozenges against the scabs of your throat,
rocks against the dam of your liver still miraculously intact
When doctors set up an account so you can join the auction of your own forsaking

When you’re willing to sell an upcycled version
of yourself to the highest bidder: ONLY ONE AVAILABLE! THIS ITEM CUSTOM-MADE!

When the highest bid comes from you
When the lucky numbers don’t turn up

When the body you wished to embody is discontinued
When you weren’t deft enough or gifted enough or wise enough to recognize its worth
When they force your hands, a die in each
When you hold in the balance your lot, your gut, your relevance, your shame

When you blow a lucky huff into your cupped hands
When you hold on to your bones. When you rattle them hard, and let them go

In a short poetic self-portrait series, Emily Shearer identified as: architect; guitar strings; apathy; 162-pound goat; Great British Baking Show, Christmas episode; Dyslexic; Spokesperson for Hope; whelk; ecstasy; mystic; and Stage Manager in Our Town. In her daily life, she teaches yoga and French and writes stuff. She recently underwent major reconstructive surgery to correct a congenital bone malformation; while recovering, she had two melanomas removed and helped her son recover from a broken bone. They are both healing well. She lives outside Houston, TX with her family and her introspections. Her poems have twice been nominated for a Pushcart and for inclusion in Best New Poets 2018. She’s had work published in Ruminate, emry’s journal online, psaltery&lyre, West Texas Literary Review, and Clockhouse, among others. You can find her on the beaches of North Carolina, the hilltops of Prague, the sidewalks of France or the web at bohemilywrites.net.