Repair.

as though to remind us we'd left
something unruined or still to ruin.

             from "Birch Tree With Chainsaw" by James Lasdun

             As though to remind us we'd left
it all on the ice, my goalie mask's gone
ahead & just failed. It's evident - sweaty,
mid-headshake post-skate - that something's not right.
There's a give, but no take. The whole enterprise's
elastic, a too eager nodding at what each shrug begs,
each stretch guesstimates. On inspection,
it's simple: the harness's come loose, a snap's
cracked. The shell's gummed with a nondescript gunk.
But divorced from rink's context, laid bare
& junked on the table's pine strip, bone-white & cleft-spurred
at its edges & crown, the mask's stark, dislocated--a
lone, near-skull denuded, unfreighted & parked
on display. Its hardware? Rusted fast, incoherent
& feral; furred once-screws sweat ochre
to a blood-rasped dust pox; a blight-fashioned frown.
Yet the mask's steely cat's eye all but
knowingly winks, the cage spot-splayed a mere twinge
from its former hard weld; a surface's seeming, belied.
In lieu? The slant, gleaming polish of awry gauge
as a guide; a mettle suggesting there might just be
something unruined. Or, still to ruin.

Please Note: Illustration(s) are not available due to copyright restrictions.