Study exquisite fear.
For fright no one bothers.
In desperation we might owe
or possibly thank one another.
Memory sways through absence
steeped in bottles of spiced family wine.
None’s a Merry Christmas,
noise twitters and fritters,
quiet the stereo makes
four-thousand loaves from
La Teresa’s tender twenty-one—
who stops, stammersings-astonished,
My Lord, you spoke this! this song—this
song, suchness-gift—! music and delivery.
Cut ebony, slick vinyl, grooves
and needle drop razors to mind where
her father’s death breathes a clutch
of lilies, enwormed books littering brain—
one novel, his story, two—
lone lime grave stones at each end.
For full four weeks she soothes her self to bed,
and so sitting here, again
strains of her self’s self burst
to blazing flame
hearing Christina perform
in run-leaps, belts, and soars.
Silence, sweet.
Silence.
There are none—no anthems
true, but voices here Teresa knew.
Recall, impossible figures strum broken lutes
with tallow soaked straws
up on worn mounds, washed grey on blue—
this her basement, dark, a dark regretting hue
fled with family’s promise—
she splits
the difference between
complications and distress.
And St. Christina sweeps the palms—
catches children in her banyan platinum tresses,
satin, bowed cupids,
unassuageable lips lifting aria slow
poring the velvet dark pillow
and settled brilliants, diamonds bright—
and come thundery Teresa’s ecstatic cry,
someone saved my life tonight!
My God, thank you for sending me an angel,
who spoke not of death—or mine!
