Doing This
The needle punctuated the air,
a relentless gavel handing down
sentences, the craft-store-bought
fate punching white nylon futures
through the presser foot and into dead
canvas my mother’d scrapped
from old projects gone wrong.
This was her first attempt
at the sewing machine after the doctors
finally cauterized the last retinal bleeds
and she’d begun to learn braille, walk
with a cane, find passing cars by ear.
She insisted that 20/1240 vision
didn’t mean she couldn’t
sew, so my father resigned himself
to hovering, wavering on his heels
in attempted help. I can do this, Allen,
met my father’s hands and every word
he spoke, her back hunched like the edge
of a waterfall. I could see my father
work his frustration like a glass blower,
the liquid fire descending down into the mold
of his stomach to set. In his eyes, ghastly
potentialities—severed digits, pulpy flesh—
shaped themselves silently, but my mother
only leaned more over the machine. I don’t
remember why she lifted the presser foot,
the blood when the needle passed through
her finger, or whether we went to the hospital,
but I can see my father that night, cradling
her thumb in an ice pack on the sofa,
my mother’s tears carrying all the fear
of losing her life as a nurse, failing
as a mother and a wife, down into the soft plaid
of his shirt, the one that always
smells of pine. He whispered over and over,
You don’t have to see.
Windows
My pastor believed the most beautiful stained glass
wasn’t glass but rather a free Happy Meal and a Number 3
no mayo in the hands of an out-of-work mother
and her autistic son. He preferred liturgies include conversations
about the weather and the Phillies with strangers on the subway
and in bars—the Body brought to the proverbial tax collectors
and lepers. For my sister, the most beautiful stained glass
was water, frozen in its own prostration, cascading
down the cliffsides of Rt. 15, runoff falling
into righteousness. Her favorite minister was the praying
mantis, his wordless sermons uniting peace and brimstone, silence
preaching stillness before God louder than a televangelist.
Here, panes kaleidoscope, hymnal-thick, light passing through umber
and ruby, violet and blue, soft gold, bathing
the small chapel of a Pennsylvania monastery in the joyful shades
of blood. The building bows in prayer, the patient breathing
of the vents fading like echoes of stones in ponds. If
the universe is a cathedral, everything is glass.
Chris Bernstorf is a touring poet. He gives all of his poetry albums away for free via Bandcamp and his books away for free via direct message on Instagram and Facebook. He’d love to come perform in your living room and is always just really grateful to be here. Also, his wife has a killer mall emo band called Visitor Pass, of which he is the number one fan.
facebook: /chrisbernstorf | instagram: chrisbernstorf | bandcamp: chrisbernstorf.bandcamp.com
