“Broken Things” and “Marigold in Your Absence” by Philip Lisi

"Broken Things"

Tiny opossum dragging your back legs 
across the road toward my porch,
I see you in the evening sun, an already strange sight. 
I think there might be nothing 
more desperate or devastating than to see you like this, 
trying so hard to cross from one side of nothing to the other.

I find the first thing I can to place you in–
a large black tub, tough like a tire
and useful for many things–
harvesting fruit or hauling firewood. 

Some call you ugly, rat, rodent, pest,
but you are beautiful–
fur glittering in the twilight,
triangle face striped with white tears.
Your mouth opens for a moment in a quiet hiss.
Black marble eyes and curled pink tail, 
body in semicircle,
a crescent moon cradled in shadow.

I offer you water,
find a cricket, and hope you will eat it.
I place a call and am told 
the wildlife rehabilitator 
will come in the morning 
to rescue you and relieve me.

Three days later, an email–
The baby opossum is doing okay.
Spinal injuries tend to take a long time to heal, 
and we are hopeful and happy with his progress.

Some would say you are just a dumb animal,
not worth saving–
but broken things can be redeemed,
and beauty is a hiss at dusk
in the middle of the road.


"Marigold in Your Absence"

I may never understand 
how you could be so fond of a chicken.
I find them unappealing. 
Their beady little marble eyes, 
residual reptilian features—
scaly legs and clawed feet—
grotesque. 

But you loved Marigold, 
your caramel-feathered Sussex hen, 
talked to her every morning 
the summer before you walked out, 
thanking her for her humble offering
of one dusty brown egg, 
feeding her meal worms and millet, 
replenishing her water, 
spreading fresh sawdust in her coop. 

I remember watching you in the mornings, 
happy in your routine, 
and Marigold in hers,
free to roam the yard, 
scratching at a beetle, 
pecking at your shoelaces, 
making her strange purring 
that sounded like gratitude.
You told me once how you loved holding her, 
your fingers nesting in her soft downy undercoat, 
her hollow bones 
offering a sense of weightlessness 
and the potential for flight. 

It is the first morning without you, 
and Marigold does not come out for her millet. 
No purr-ruck-cluck-cluck to greet me, 
no scaly gams on display 
on the wooden runway of her roost. 
Instead, her right leg is held against her breast, 
her claw curled like a fist. 
If you were here, 
you would talk to her, hold her, 
pressing feathers 
into something like love.

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