Sunday Morning in Michigan
Let me be small here
beneath pines and swept blue sky,
catch echoes of bird
song, a rustle and white flash —
the deer’s flagged tail receding.
Let me be small here
beneath pines and swept blue sky,
catch echoes of bird
song, a rustle and white flash —
the deer’s flagged tail receding.
The shock. Awake at 3:00 AM,
mind roams night like you once roamed
empty streets moon drifting… eerie
surreal shadows of age
Cleaning out the Augean stables
where a thousand immortal cattle were kept—
their dung deep enough to drown in—
was the fifth of the Twelve Labors of Hercules.
The task was to finish the job in a single day,
which seemed impossible until our hero
re-routed two rivers, the Alpheus & the Peneus,
to wash away the muck.
My fridge isn’t quite that bad.
King Augeas never cleaned his stables,
while I tend to business every year or so.
The few cattle in my fridge are very much mortal,
their excretions limited to occasional juices
leaking out of the plastic wrap. Still,
you’d be surprised at how much things
start to pile up:
half-full cartons of sour cream & yogurt
pushed to the back & out of mind,
growing enough mold to invent penicillin
all over again. Petrified lemons & limes
laid to rest in the crisper with atrophied apples,
desiccated carrots, herbs turned to dust.
The last of the miso, mummified
in its Tupperware tomb.
My intentions were good, I swear,
but this is the road I’ve paved. Part of the problem
is my memories of the fridges of my youth,
stocked in the style of Mother Hubbard,
bless her heart. Hedging against hunger,
I keep my shelves packed with the plenty
we lacked back then. Now, like Hercules,
I put my back in it & get to work.
we may delay exercise
with lazy chatter
and sigh with relief
when the session is over
but when called upon
we spring into action
we are galvanized
by a week long
sixteen-text thread
in search of a lost
water bottle with stickers
from the Netherlands
at last revealed
in the studio
closet
The weathered words fall from my mouth,
each syllable knowing its way around my tongue,
well-worn and laced with years of recitation.
It is no longer an act of will to say them;
no, these words pour out of me as naturally as breathing,
the separation between me and the liturgy long dissolved.
Gazing upon the piece of bread, I think,
‘what a pretty piece of flesh’.
And when the words are spoken to me,
‘The body of Christ, given for you,’
they are like the whispered intent of a lover—
soft and tender, wooing me to come.
I saw the rye bread
sitting on the counter
and the crumbs on the plate
next to the juice glass
that held a few drops
of Hamm’s.
This meant that Grandpa
had stopped by
for a headcheese sandwich.
I dropped my schoolbag on the bench
by the back door and
took off my loafers so as
not to mark the linoleum
Mom had just waxed.
I knew I would find a quarter and
a stick of Juicy Fruit on my dresser,
my standard visit gifts.
After Grandma died, and Grandpa was
so very sad, I saved my money
to buy presents for him.
For his birthday I gave him a framed picture
of Grandma holding Georgina,
the cat that lived to be twenty.
For Christmas I gave him a book
of black-and-white barn pictures.
On Valentine’s Day I gave him a mug
with World’s Greatest Grandpa
blazoned across the front of it.
He told my mom I shouldn’t
waste quarters on him,
she said that he should accept my gifts
and the joy I received in turn.
He acquiesced.
I wove a necklace from Juicy Fruit wrappers.
I wore it the day we took school pictures.
I gave him a 5X7 in a frame from Woolworth’s
to put next to Grandma and Georgina
and a wallet-sized copy
he could show to his friends.
Later, after the stroke
and his downward turn,
a nurse’s aide helped me put
the necklace around his neck.
He seemed very pleased with it.
I know I was.
Pink primrose
cascade down the edge
of the rock garden in early spring
a choir of sweet grace
playing peek-a-boo
at dawn or dusk.
A welcome sign in floral language
easily read and inhaled
as it delicately nods
to the early sun.
Rays shine through thin petals
capped like angel wings,
glistening like abalone shells,
soft as mulberry silk
spreading delicious citrus scent
as the stars congregate in the sky.
what did all this contemplation and meditation look like
back in the day
when war was on unions ruled patriotism felt right cars were more often feet children played in the street
don’t you think agreed it was innate
not this thing we had to stop
and do
to make ourself
whole
I continue to profess
not because I believe but because it just makes sense
God is in the doing
