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Poetry

The Mending Egg

The Mending Egg

To Victoria, my grandmother

My grandmother had inherited
a wooden egg from her mother who
had used it to mend countless old socks;

its surface now thoroughly smoothed
after having sewn away so many holes
and reuniting so many wounded siblings.

I don’t believe I ever saw my grandma
fix a single sock with it; by then
we did not have to, we were fortunate that way,

but the egg remained carefully placed
atop the box where she gathered threads,
needles, and a tribe of orphaned buttons.

We never spoke about the mending egg
or how it earned its place. I think now
that she meant some sort of altar for it

because to neglect what gave its life
to repair what had been torn would be a sin
or, even more, to disrespect her mother.

By Juan Pablo Mobili

Juan Pablo Mobili was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, and adopted by New York, a long time ago. His poems have appeared in First Literary Review-EastThe Poetry Distillery, Anti-Heroin Chic, Red Planet Magazine; or are forthcoming from Spirit Fire Review, Mason Street, The Red Wheelbarrow Review, and The Journal of American Poetry.  In addition, he co-wrote a chapbook of poems in collaboration with Madalasa Mobili, “Three Unknown Poets,” published by Seranam Press.

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