Not everything remains broken

But Bob Dylan still hit the nail on the head.

Things keep breaking: the water heater.
The dishwasher. My son’s braces bracket. 
The big van is too low on fuel to drive
and the gas can leaks, filling the air with fumes. 

I told my husband once:
“Everything Is Broken” 
is a worship song.

Things keep breaking. The little van screeches
and squeals, endless feedback from a microphone.
I move my hand along the edge of a plate
chipped red rim setting off alarms.
The vacuum guzzles crumbs, then vomits them up.

But I’m not taking pictures of her meals
or driving her back and forth to rehab
to keep her from thinning into nothing.
Today I’m going to unlock our knives.

Things keep breaking. But this time
not my heart. Not my heart.