The Bricklayer’s Beautiful Daughter

My heart breaks too easily.

Its like Faberge, you know?

Its a fine piece blown glass, born of fire and passion,

Formed by breath like whispers in a dream.

It sits on a shelf, delicate and useless,

Enchanting onlookers: “Wow,” they say.

“That’s quite a piece of work.”

But touch it wrong just once,

and it might roll away; turn too briskly,

your elbow knocks it, and down it goes,

glittering hazardous across the floor.

An accident, a mistake,

a simple misjudgment on your part,

and there is its, all a broken disappointment,

and you racing to find an apology,

an explanation. Or maybe you just say:

“Hey, didn’t see it. Not my fault.”

I go through lots of glue

Being made the way I am.

Every time I get knocked off the shelf,

Handled too roughly, jostled around

And dropped,

I raise an eyebrow to the mess,

Put my hands on my hips,

And let out a sigh,

like a mother with cause

To scold her son, but too doting on him

To do so, I usher him out to play some more,

While I go get the broom and dust pan.

I’ve spent many hopes on the floor,

Cross-legged, shoulders slouching,

sifting through the pieces

of my broken heart.

I try not to cut my fingers on the crystalline edges,

But they’re razor sharp, and it’s a tricky business

Picking up the shards of life that used to make you love:

The sound and rhythm of your voice,

The warmth and chill of your kiss;

I cry like I have glass dust embedded in my thumbs,

When I realize that I won’t hear or feel you ever again.

Brick is an excellent building material.

After hurricane Katrina,

Though brick homes had filled with water,

None collapsed.

CNN ran a news segment showing

the strength and durability of brick.

A machine fired a four by four inch thick wood beam

At a brick house, at over 40 miles per hour

to show that flying wreckage

In a category 5 storm couldn’t penetrate

A home made of brick. The wood made

A funny sound as it bounced off the wall.

Insurance companies love the stuff.

I think I would do much better

if my heart were made of bricks and mortar.

Even blocks, sturdy, reliable,

Kilned in the same hot fire,

Deep and earthy, a fire keeper,

A rock to build foundations with,

And walls none too easily shaken.

I can see the gentle movement of the forearm,

Leveling the mortar on the trowel,

Dropping it evenly on to the edges of the block,

Fitting each one securely into place,

The way my father used to build walls

In the extremes of the Chicago,

Arches, office suites, and condominiums,

Great marble foyer on Second and Harrison,

Built in any weather, because he had kids to feed,

And he was willing to endure to fill their bellies.

That’s how I would like to build my heart:

Like a foundation to hold

the palace

that is the rest of me.

But instead, my heart

is beautiful to look at,

Difficult to handle,

And easily broken.

Laying brick is not my trade.

And it’s a very difficult apprenticeship for a woman.

But I do vaguely remember the steps my father took

In building side job patios, barbeques, ½ walls,

And backdoor steps. I think I could give it a try.

It might be messy and uneven, but that’s okay.

Brick is strong stuff:

Made with heat like passion,

And patience like love.

by Siobhan Boland

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