What wakes you
is the pain beneath
the shoulder blades,
where filmy wings
might have begun—
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Synecdoche
The first figurehead was an animal lashed to a pole on the front of a raft or a fishing boat. In all this, the bottom line, the signature, was tender for the gods: what could be bartered for a full day’s catch, the love of a woman, the breath of a child returned from the brink. Who knows when the first surrogate was carved out of wood, stained with dye from flowers and herbs, with soot and smoke? The chin juts out over water, and across its surface the long neck hovers like a blue-green shadow. It’s difficult to keep the body’s balance while holding the arms out in supplication, and so they’re lashed together at the elbows or wrists.
In response to Via Negativa: Anonymous.
El Camino
We read that story, tonight, about the woman who was moved to remember the name— the name and the life of the boy who came and stood outside her window all that cold, rainy night, before she went away— The name and the life of the boy who took to his bed a week after that— who took ill with bronchitis, pneumonia— it is not clear; then swiftly passed from this world to the next— And we read that it was a song that touched a chord and sprung this memory open like epiphany— Like sudden snowfall more brilliant than light, outlining the roofs, the streets, each lamp-post in town— And do we know, do we know what that is like, someone asked— such recklessness, such love? And how many will say they would burn for some glimmer, remote, unreachable, afar? The pillows are cold; the coverlet needs turning— But here we are, with our love of warmth, of touch, of what is kind— We close our eyes, we slip our muddy feet into the icy stream.
In response to Via Negativa: Pilgrimage.
Fleeting
That moment before dark: deep blue, etched
lines in city brick; a rain-filled plastic tub
alive with circling wings, then still—
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Called
What I want is for you to read my lips, my eyes.
Curve of spine, spot on the small of the back
that has ached for days. Arch of instep, flex
of the foot; toes that lead the way, that always
lead the way as though they knew where on this earth
they were going. Hither, say the fingers curling
into the shapes of smoke. Hither,
I repeat. Hither, hither.
In response to small stone (179).
Elegy, even after 22 years
My father, we did not know then it would be the last day of your life. But you struggled into your slippers and your bathrobe the warm, dusky-gold of corn; and you came and stood in the doorway, holding on to the wooden frame for ballast. How long did you stand there, more wispy than a plume of smoke, simply gazing over the rest of us huddled on two beds? We’d pushed them together, exhausted from going days without sleep through the aftershocks that rocked the city. The upright piano had moved to the far end of the living room. The china cabinet sounded crystal chimes as if from afar, but nearer than the drone of rescue helicopters fracturing the dark. No one dared to light candles for fear of setting the house on fire. No one dared to unfasten their shoes. I’ve written this over and over, composing and revising, revising and composing, trying to return to that elusive fold of time, those last few hours before your body stiffened and your eyes turned silver-grey, the color of a clear but frozen lake. Even as nurses tried to revive you where you lay on a pallet in the hospital wing, your spirit had started its journey. Out of that valley it rose, rising above earthquake ruins, rising higher than the limestone rocks; rising, still, as seasons changed and pools of sleeping fish warmed back to life.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
If not with me
“Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither…” ~ Job 1:21 (KJV)
Would you go? Would you go in my place? e-mailed a friend, having paid in advance months ago for a twelve-day trip she would not be able to take. Down the Rhine, from Bamberg, Wurzburg, Freudenberg, down to Koblenz and Cologne, finishing with three days in Amsterdam. I would have, but for various reasons couldn’t, can’t. So I said no. Oh don’t get me wrong— who wouldn’t leap at the chance? Everything paid for: all-inclusive of meals, wine and beverages— anytime, anywhere; the land excursions, the entrance fees to museums and castles, barring other side trips outside the itinerary once the ship docks at ports of call; cashless on the boat, no tipping allowed, gratuities pre-calculated into the cost. Do not inquire too closely into my reasons. O magnum mysterium. Only know that I find it difficult to revel in joy alone. Will you reconsider? she asked. There will be 3 balls: the welcome, the Captain’s farewell, the Christmas dinner ball; live music, open seating, a personal valet on the liner through the entire trip. Truly, I thanked her; and promised, perhaps someday.
In response to the cassandra pages: two world premieres.
Inflorescence
“Where is the way where light dwelleth? and as for darkness, where is the place thereof,
That thou shouldest take it to the bound thereof, and that thou shouldest know the paths to the house thereof?”
~ Job 38: 19-20
We sit and hug our knees, watching as children come to the center of the square, where volunteers have set up fires and big iron cauldrons. Some have brought buckets, and some have brought styrofoam bowls; and some have brought tin plates or the plastic cover of a margarine tub. Their faces are smeared with soot, with tears, with snot. They haven’t eaten for days. They haven’t washed. Soon there isn’t enough for their hunger. We wonder, will there ever be enough again? The long-handled ladles scrape the last burnt layers from the bottom of the pot. A few grains of brown rice, onions, lentils in the mouth. Behind them, the setting sun casts shadows in hives of stucco and plaster. Hollow stairwells, honeycombs of walls where bedrooms and kitchens used to be. Should I mouth the old prayers, should I repeat a phrase of comfort to my neighbor huddled beside me, it isn’t from claiming to know, Lord, what these designs can mean. I am smaller than a cipher on a flimsy page. In the darkness, every heart still beating buries itself like a mine waiting to explode, the way the dark amber flesh of a date swells and breaks open, no longer able to contain either its ripeness or the sugars that have hardened to stone.
In response to small stone (177).
Obento
Two cheeks of cheese for Anpan-man,
a lettuce leaf for a cape.
Dividing rooms for privacy, tatami
rolls as white as rice— The edamame
are reclusive, and the cherry
tomatoes incorrigible flirts.
In response to Via Negativa: New Sun Rising.
…there is no end to the kindness of this world
For the worm in the breast is still, though the slug
beneath the stone may have shredded the leaf to lace—
For the square of grass has brightened gradually
in the sun, and the smell of burnt toast and coffee
mingles with the morning air— For the jellyfish
stabbed more than fifty times in its petri dish
has miraculously come back to life,
for the aging scientist to feed by hand—
For paper lanterns have lifted into the sky,
tiny fires ablaze in their bellies, allowing a sea
of faces to look straight up into the dark— For our
tired feet and fumbling fingers, uncertain hearts,
our clumsy, uncombed foliage: the only flags we know
to hoist with the halyard each anointed day.
In response to thus: no end to the kindness of this world.