Leftover Miracles – a poem by Jenna B Funkhouser

Leftover Miracles

My mouth is narrow.
I cannot open it wide enough
to feast on all that a day offers.

Example: today
the sky is a sinkhole
writing in watercolor
which the crows are circling
(those slicked, stern critics)

there are eleven new roses
swathed around sticks
like tufts of pink cotton
almost too sweet

and a man stops
to tug a bit
on his daughters jacket
and answer why
for the seventh time 

he nearly misses
the shuffling bus
on which everyone notices
each other
and pretends not to

on which two women 
will tell him, what a sweet
child, and he will glance
at another man’s newspaper
surreptitiously.

Onion skins waft
their way into everything
a promise of tomorrow’s 
bounty, and the handprints
climbing up the walls
like a prayer.

And one mother holds
a sick child close 
to her breast, incarnate
Madonna of the one
resting in the corner.

Anything 
could be
ahead -

tiny fingers 
iridescent with suds
wild mornings
that suddenly grow still
the steel blade of hope
knifing its way through
a kind of despair

it is too much
to chew;
I am gulping 
the world down whole
I am managing
only the crumbs 
the leftover miracles
piled into baskets 
(nothing is wasted
after all, keep the
big meals for the ones
with larger stomachs)

I am watching the world 
break open and multiply 
before my very eyes.

Jenna K Funkhouser is a poet and author living in Portland, Oregon, always trying to cross through the membrane of the sacred surrounding us. Her poetry has recently been published by Geez Magazine, the Saint Katherine Review, Ekphrastic Review, and As It Ought To Be, among others.

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