How to eat with the gods

Don’t open that
parasol indoors—
a hail of spiders
will plague you.

*

Don’t throw away
the sweetbreads:
charred, they’ll yield
our readable fortunes.

*

Don’t point
the serving-
spoon handles toward
the early death.

*

Don’t strip the meat
down to the knob
of the joint that is
the jealous god’s.

*

If you must leave, having
no more stomach for the meal,
we’ll turn our plates
like steering wheels.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Hangman.

What does it mean

when droves of insects with silvered wings
cellophane the air with their flying?

What does it mean when leaves blow backward
and petals leave reddened thumbprints on the ground?

What does it mean when in the frame formed
by fingers I glimpse a boat floating out to sea?

Crickets begin their chorus as the moon lifts,
thin disc of metal hoisted by invisible pulleys;

and I grow pensive with all the birds that come
to roost in the crook of the crabapple tree.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

What do you miss?

asked the interviewer—

There are no longer names
for some things that exist

only in memory. This
is why it takes years

to practice forming
letters with ink

to make a single
word. In the dense

silence of forests,
who knows how long

it took the birds
to weave the canopy?

 

In response to Via Negativa: Night singer.

Cielito Lindo

“Canta y no llores” ~ “Cielito lindo”

When she comes across these lines in a book
of poetry— “In proportion to what is taken,
what is given multiplies,” the Buddha wonders:

if this is so, is the reverse also true?
Is this what spooked the Greeks into espousing
the virtue of moderation, of keeping to

the middle way: of practicing, like Sophrosyne,
a life of self-control, restraint, temperance,
and discretion? Not much wine, not much song:

sobriety instead of singing along in the heat
at the top of your lungs with the mariachi band
strolling from table to table— Ay ay ay ay,

canta y no llores. What they mean is the arrow
has struck its target; Pandora’s box is open,
and every calamity is loose in the world.

There’s nothing you can do with such a wound
except sing. Yes, why not sing? the sky is brilliant,
is really more than lovely— Don’t cry.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Teaching the catbird to sing.

The Buddha’s friend asks for her opinion

on whether she should follow her bliss,
wrench herself away from all that has made her
so unhappy through the years; leave behind empty,

meaningless days revolving from one predictable
ritual of domestic life to another— elementary
school drop-off each morning, followed by a trip
to the coffee shop for a half-caf or cortado;

then the spa, lunch, and shopping with her gym
buddies at the mall, after which each of them
will go their separate ways, backing out
of the parking garage and waving perfectly

manicured hands from the windows of their Volvos
or Land Rovers because Ohmygod I didn’t realize
how late it is and the nanny will be furious!

Back home, she usually pours a glass of wine

before taking the kids and the dog for a walk around
the block, her way of watching the clock, counting
down, wondering if her husband will be home
for dinner or if he’ll text to say Sorry, another

late night at the office to finish XYZ account,
which she knows is bullshit shorthand for Don’t
stay up I’ll be fucking my mistress in some undisclosed
downtown location.
The Buddha’s friend sobs;

she has had it, she is leaving her 20-year marriage
to explore what it means to have an affair herself,
to take up jazz and learn scat singing; to smoke weed,
volunteer with a rock band, be their groupie and travel

around the country in a bus with no fixed
destination. Her friend’s eyes are red-rimmed
from crying. The Buddha offers her a Kleenex
and a hug, knowing that perhaps this is one

of those times just listening may be the best
approach: to be there for her without judgment,
biting her tongue so she doesn’t blurt out questions
yet like What about the kids, the dog, the house?

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Inventory

Peal
of a chime intercepted by a draft:
salt filtering down the cellar.

*

Prism
of sectioned light: marble
with a heart of revolving flame.

*

Sugar
that the bird stole
in the shape of a fig.

*

Film
on the counter’s edge:
powdery sift of milk on the tongue.

*

Moth
suspended from the rafters,
furled tight as a drying rosebud.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Absent.

Holiday

It’s that time of year: the Buddha feels overwhelmed
by the explosion of flower bouquet sales at each

grocery store, by the succession of radio and TV ads
for jewelry and fashion, singing Hallmark cards,

cleaning services, foot spas… This time, all the hoopla
is for Mother’s Day, which means that this weekend,

it will be difficult if not next to impossible
to get any kind of reservation at restaurants,

not to mention tickets for the symphony or opera.
All the hype’s fed partially by guilt, remorse,

regret— Remember your mom: give her a whole
day off from cleaning, chauffeuring, cooking,

diapering, laundry duties on top of her regular job.
Bring her or whoever has fulfilled that nurturing role

in your life, a favorite breakfast in bed, a rose
clenched between your teeth, a card you’ve penned

with thanks you’ll never sing adequately or enough of…
Remember the greatest loves are always those which want

to be, to give, so much; which stumble and fail, knowing
they are— like us— imperfect, unfinished, yearning.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

The Buddha doesn’t give a damn

You look so beautiful, at peace
and in your own spirit
, says a friend
that the Buddha has not seen in a while.
She beams and hugs her back, while mentally
reminding herself to check in the mirror
for what might have spurred this compliment.
The Buddha has her hair loosely pinned up
because of the humidity; she’s in dark-
colored jeans, a t-shirt, and faded cardigan
even on a workday, just because comfort
now comes first. Every so often, on special
occasions, she’ll wear a dress and heels,
put on some makeup— foundation, eye
shadow, lipstick, mascara. Now that she’s
past 50, she finally knows what it means
to not give a damn: to be unbothered
by the decision to not go out drinking with
her students; to eat breakfast for dinner
and dessert for breakfast; to not be non-
plussed when a wind lofts her skirt above
her knees, when a rolling wave slaps down
the top of her strapless swimsuit at the public
beach. She simply tugs the offending garment
back in place, smiles, shrugs, carries on.

Nagual

The Buddha listens as her friend G
remembers the day a pair of cops came
to her home, to break the news:

they’d fished out her son’s body
from the Shuylkill river— no marks
of violence, his pockets empty, his feet

unshod. You know in your bones, says G.
Her mother, who opened the door, crumpled
to the floor like a sheet yanked

from the line. In old myths and sacred texts
are passages which describe how, when a child
is born, a life index plant is set in the soil

by the front door, along with his mother’s
afterbirth. Whatever happens to the child
is mirrored in the curling vine, the wild

hibiscus, the golden shower tree. No words
were needed for what shriveled like a leaf
in the heart, constricted the gut:

invisible blow dealt to the base
of the staff, lone bird that held out its
familiar note in the wood, now stilled.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.