Plywood Exposed to the Sun

Plywood Exposed to the Sun

(“Then they sat on the ground with him seven days and nights, but no one spoke a word to him because they saw that his suffering was very intense.” Job 2:13)

Afterwards the plywood peeled after the rain,
exposed to the sun,
darkened by age,
with nails in the corners and
splinters in the grain.

The power went out overnight. The winds
grabbed ceilings and families in its teeth.
Shingled a year ago, the roof shuddered like
staccato notes played by sonic booms circling the
the town
just before the county fair.

The lawns had just been mowed,
the dew was stubborn in the early summer light,
the wine was spilled on broken concrete,
the silence moved in layers across the
river to the hills. The grieving began

Once the shock had worn off.

So they sat in the dust, mudded their faces,
turned their backs to the sun, ached and held their
tongues long enough to let the suffering sink, a heart
ballasted like a stone.

Taken on its own, the week changed very little.
Hours without songs, days with fire for bread,
nights with the moon mocking overhead.

But four bodies bore a single sorrow for
days without words. If only we knew the
power in the hands and eyes, the feet and fingers,
the heart that cannot find the downbeat anymore.
If only we stayed, took our sick days
and loved the way we are made: fully fleshy,
fully torn, complex and worn by time like

Plywood exposed to the sun.