Eric Roy

A bracelet lied in the middle
of a long and empty sidewalk— 
not lay or lies, but lied. As in it wanted you  
to imagine someone lost it
and much sad value haunted there. 
So the object picked you up, 
angled the mirror of your hand
to find a way around the corner.  
Pulled apart by resistance. 
Becoming one by losing four or five.  
Imperfections must be present from the beginning  
for wind and water to exist
so says the cosmologist, 
while we claim, Keep faith, keep faith
but pass the jug of wine.  
Gold repaired with gold
remains gold, but porcelain
and people can’t camouflage
unstable lines between unspoken pieces.  
Only a malleable and patient art
can turn
everything’s a lie
into everything’s alive.  

Author's Commentary: I read an article on "The Ancient Japanese Art of Broken Pieces" and was immediately drawn to the idea. That things can not only be put back together, but in a manner that adds to the object's beauty, is a concept both reassuring and oddly human. The three stanzas were images or ideas I had in my head (Lost bracelet on the sidewalk; Keep faith, but pass the wine; Everything is a lie/alive) that work together when recognizing the potential in broken or lost pieces.

Eric Roy has poetry recently published or forthcoming in Green Mountains Review, The Fiddlehead, Crab Creek Review, Blueline, Souvenir Lit, Birds Piled Loosely, The New York Quarterly, and elsewhere. He has won awards for his teaching (Teacher of the Year - Virginia College, Austin 2014), chili (13th Annual ACCA Cook-Off - 1st Place), and poetry (2015 KGB Open Reading 'After the AWP' Winner). He is currently the overnight pit master at Morgan's in Brooklyn.