by Jared Pearce
The contractor came to see about
where I wanted a hole punched
in the back brick wall to make
a closet and keep the pantry.
We measured, we bartered,
we shook hands, until on the front path
he told me both his parents died
within a month of each other:
He hadn’t shed a tear, he said,
though his pastor encouraged his grief;
He’s been having trouble getting back
to work, he said, he can’t handle
The somewhere revving saw
to cut into a lighted room from
a darkened passage, a blueprint
showing where the load and stress
Should be anchored to rest.
There’s no point in crying,
he said; now that they’re gone,
what tears could cut like diamonds?
Some of Jared Pearce’s poems have recently been or will soon be shared in Marathon, Peacock, Poetic Diversity, DIAGRAM, and Red Fez. His first collection is forthcoming from Aubade Press next year. He lives in Iowa.