Friday, November 27, 2009

la quinta blessing

you are between pages,
crisp, anonymous sheets
without stain or imprint,
hotel-clean, as if no word,
no gesture, had ever come
before you.

in this room, amongst the pillows
and the pools of tungsten light,
you can more clearly smell the weight
of what you bring in with you.

whatever you eat there,
the fruits appearing at the door as if
by Providence, the Garden
is hushed -- sin falls like an apple,
a drop of wine on the tongue;
the earth rebounds a single drum
beat, the heel of your hand
on the mattress.

you are between blank pages
in a book, a calendar of days erased.
ease your hands into the black
depths of your luggage, and bring forth
whatever you thought you'd need:

your pride, your hopes, your shame;
pictures of your kids, clean socks,
shaving kit, memories of other rooms.

write into these leaves
your uncertainty.
let your love-making pass unjudged.
sleep deeply,
as if you had invented
the method.

Monday, November 23, 2009

untitled

I'm coming down with something;
tis the season.

there's a small stain on my kid's t-shirt,
a spot of blood that escaped the paper napkin
in the dentist's chair. they sedate him,
because he fights --
the fleshwounds of childhood seem
to him
wholly unnecessary.
at six,
knows his choice is taken from him
against his will.

"Your dental tools destroyed my mightiness,"
he cries, accusing,
to his kind-eyed doctor.
"This was NOT a good idea,"
sobbing angrily.

My bones ache. My tongue hurts,
where I bit into the flesh
struggling to pull him from the cab.
The dark tear and its pain
seem to have spread,
to my elbows, wrists,
my heart.

This is the betrayal of parenthood:
the pain you cause from duty.
And sifting through your words to your child
at the end of the day,
looking for any harm inflicted
in your negligence.

I prayed that any pain in him would
come to me instead.
Prayed for any fever, any throb or
fear. Begged God to spare him
from the common cold.

But my actions still endanger him.

I am flesh too, and weak
and angry at the God who still
keeps mum
on certain subjects.

Half-asleep on my arm,
my boy, my only child --
give me all your pain, and yet
with love,
there's always more to come.