Jan/Feb 2003 • Poetry |
How To Make An Agnostic A Martyr
First you match your moon to his sun
and all the shades of light between, but you forgetto ask the question (this is your sin).
When you remember, you beg himfor the clarity of repetition, pressing the point
with fingers curled like question marksinto his skin; but his doubt is reasonable,
so you pound fists into midnight soil instead.Eventually, your palms assume the hue
of burnt offerings, as if you've buried somethingthere. You glance at a lit firmament, and ask God
not to drop a star on your head; then you dash under a slabof stone—which is fitting—and beguile this man to lie
down and make gentle lamb sounds. Raking your nailsacross his skull, you picture him shorn; but he just yawns
and wants to know what you mean by sacrifice.You confess, It means to be alone; and you don't care
who witnesses you running after him—but God knowsit's not Isaac you've chased but the ram, and yes,
you must give him back.Then (as if you are faithless) your teeth
hammer a nail to its bed—and you mourn.
Witness
When you swoop in: a blush-breasted dollop
shaken from the great paintbrush, I stop thisliquid dance, hold your breath under my skin, and stalk
your winged precision, record your existenceacross the tips of my privacy fence.
For a moment I am less, just these eyes, watchingmore: and you are
a delicious afterthoughtspattered across sky. I can't afford to blink
if a single skipping lashcould render you superfluous.
When the Painter wipes the wet brush of us—
and he will clean our possibility—against the brimof that deep jar and we ooze back in,
and another lid closes, and it will—every eyeand coffin, every jar—who will remember
an iron red speck, or two, in a universe of stardust?
Nazi Son Of A Bitch
Mother wept when she cut my curls
then caught them in ribbon
pressed as scraps into books.Once, she caught me jumping
on her featherbed, flattened
under the weight of my enthusiasm.She marched Father in
to inspect my boot prints, and said,
It is not his fault.The next time I jumped,
the mattress bounced
back, left no shred of evidence.Silent Mother smiled and pressed
creases like forgiveness
into Father's uniform.He'd been to the factory
to order the fluff
that acquitted me: bundlesof freshly cut hair.