An Ode to Assemblage

In my latest arrangement, Ms. Piggy flirts 
with the dirty old man. She leans back, at ease
on the sheepskin rug, legs crossed. Seductive. 
The ICE agent, the Lamb, and Nemo bear witness, pleased

with their soft contradictions, thus suggesting there’s a God.

For most of us, it really doesn’t matter.
The packing has begun. Be sure to take out the trash 
before your ride arrives
to drive you to the Pearly Gates.

In the meantime, we should all be gluing agates and bones 
to broken glass, carefully framing what we use.
Have you made the acquaintance of sticks and stones?
Their suspended animation is a ruse. 

We are all embodied ashes. 
We are all embodied dust.
It’s what we think we know that keeps us going
and what we throw away that tells the truth.

We must sand the imperfections and dig the soft decay
from the twisted roots and branches we’ve dragged in.
The storm creates a crazy kind of hunger in our guts.
This shale with tiny fossils is no match for vicious wind.

So let us wander to the busy beastly kitchen 
and scrounge for scraps we can eat and comprehend. 
When leftovers are reheated, they become 
more than when they started, and there’ll never be an end.

Julian of Norwich is seated at our table.
All shall be well, and all shall be well,
And all manner of things shall be well, 
she tells our inner selves.

That which falls apart shall reassemble. Ashes cleanse the glass
and enhance the unruly garden we call home.
And when the holy storms die down, dust settles into sediment,
congealing under pressure back to stone.