Three Poems
Souls On The Horizon
That cloud hanging over the Sangre de Cristos
looks like my mom, ephemeral and grey, the
pulse fading as she slow-floats towards hazy
infinity. Santa Fe means “holy faith.” Is that
why the bodies of the dead here transfigure
into clouds? My mother’s cloud looks full
and peaceful. It was a good day to die
and she was ready. No thunder. Just sleep.
But lighting-tortured clouds haunt Albuquerque
today. Those are souls who died angry, too
early, too much pain, victims of cruelty.
No one on the Weather dares mention them,
clouds from people transformed. Tomorrow
there will be a storm of uncles, aunts, hospice,
the neighbor’s kid hit by a car. No almanac
will detail the winds that carry ghost-messages
and tears from graves in the pit from which
troubled souls come. No scientist will dissert that
the dust that envelops northern New Mexico
chokes with lost songs and fat cheeks turned thin.
The desert birds rise past the hills with keen eyes
and feathers that protect them from the harshness.
They sing mourning songs. I stare beyond them
to the future. What kind of cloud will I be?
Courage Is A Thing Like Hope
Courage is a thing like hope
but meatier, more muscular.
Not a thing with feathers but
with scars. It doesn’t sing, it throbs
like a drum, like a heartbeat.
It seldom sings of Dickinson
or perches or bears feathers --
No, it sings “Invictus” to the bold,
angry strains of Beethoven while
standing up to usurpers who would
dare call themselves Emperor.
Courage is a thing like love but
grittier, seldom sweet, sometimes
starved, placed in solitary confinement
blanketless, sleep-deprived and
either chained or exiled.
Courage is a thing like faith but
simpler, immediate, smelling of blood
not of incense, shouting and groaning
not chanting, demanding sacrifice
and sweat, loss of breath, hunger,
tears, fortunes, reddened eyes
exhaustion and the occasional
contemptuous scowl at injustice.
Courage does not look to perch.
It looks to consume.
And in its extremity it
asks everything of me.
Up From The Church Basement
This is where I end
listening to a male prostitute’s scarred testimony
parked in a folding chair next to a broken manger,
empty Easter baskets, cleaning supplies,
smelling the dank sepia smells that come from the 1940s,
sipping coffee that reeks, nourishes, tastes vaguely of Ajax.
I am asked to read but have no glasses, my hands shake,
my eyes are bloodshot and aching, I look like hell.
A homeless man removes the remains of his shoes
and caresses his soiled bare feet. Make them all stop this
humanness, I don’t belong here, it’s someone else’s country,
her cell, his dystopic lodge; someone else’s way up the stairs.
[This space left intentionally empty. Like my soul.]
Jimmy, boyishly handsome if weathered, speaks of tricks
and dumpsters, The Lost Weekend, the Island of Misfit Toys,
It’s a Wonderful Life and Anne Frank’s attic.
He sings a dirge of overdose and a hymn of resurrection.
He makes the promise of the butterfly to the
pupa, of the oak to the acorn. Should I... dare I
believe him or do I clutch with claws onto my award-
winning role of Cynic Snark, romancing my
steady march towards the cemetery? These
strangers act as if their lives depend upon
being here. I’m so tired. I close my aching eyes.
This is where I begin.