Poetry View
by Sam Pierstorff
Handle With Care
When love arrived on our doorstop
in a box wrapped in plain brown
delivered by a man in the same color,
we shook it—its tiny pieces rattling
like popcorn kernels in an iron skillet.
The directions were in Mandarin and French.
We spoke neither. I retrieved the toolkit,
the hammer and nails, the long
screwdriver with the plus sign at the tip.
You grabbed a towel, worried
about the mess I would soon make.
But you were patient, like a scrub nurse,
handing me parts and holding
your palm open for the pieces I gave back.
It took hours, and sure, there were screams,
but it was finally built: love. We made it.
And each night, as we reassemble it,
we discover what else it can do and learn
about the parts we have forgotten to use.
