Since there was room in the marriage
For only one believer Max
Lost his faith as Esther's grew. I wonder
If, missing her easy unbelief,
Esther ever rejected certain tenets
So Max would have to believe them.
Thrones, Chariots and Dominions
Would accost him on the street
Saying "Make up your mind already!
Are we real or not?"
The very old muse isn't feeling well
But tries her best to inspire me
With ideas picked up from stoops
In downtown Brooklyn. "Ab-she,"
She mutters hoarsely, "Is a giant crocodile
Who eats souls lost between seven and eight o'clock."
She drinks some tea, closes her eyes, snorts.
"I think a love poem -- maybe an aubade.
It could start 'O my beloved, Dawn comes and,
All-reluctant, I must leave you before
A giant Egyptian crocodile eats my soul.'"
My cousin, the god of horses,
Is a short, pleasant man
Who lives in the Bronx just off
Zerega Avenue not far from
The subway station. He tells me
He intended to work in I.T.
But took what he thought
Was a temporary gig in 1976
And never left. Since he's not
A major god he has just six angels
Working for him only one of whom
Is a horse. If pressed he'll admit
He can perform miracles but says
The paperwork is a nightmare.
Freya, when times are slow and worshippers few,
Takes psychopomp contracts, carriaging souls
To those realms of the dead which still have open slots.
For reasons long forgotten, her carriage --
It's a springless cart, actually -- is pulled by cats
Who never listen to her or to anyone
Except each other. The cart spends hours
Standing in pools of sunlight. When it moves
It moves so slowly, weighted with dozing souls,
That it's easy to hop on as it ambles by.
If you're not particular about where you're going
It will get you there.
I'm here said the poem and if
You don't write me you'll wind up
Writing about not writing me and
Baba Yaga -- no, make that two Baba Yagas --
Will be in your dreams, making faces
And turning cartwheels and you'll wake
Smelling of smoke from stubby pipes
Held between horrible teeth.
God shakes His wrist; the perchèd angel
Flirts into the air, seeking the prey
Whom God has or has not given warning
You, standing on the ground or halfway up
A tree, shout now and make that cruel head
Jerk around distracted into thought
Meet its eyes, call it something pronounceable
Make it halfway human or you're lost.
I know a musician's dead because
High school principal, Leonard J. Fliedner
Turns up in my dream. He wears, as usual,
A grey, three piece suit. He looks good --
Cool, confident, prepared as in life
To put down his papers, push back his specs,
Loosen his silk tie, turn his cuffs up,
Flex his pale fingers and play piano
With wild precision. I don't tell him
He's dead but fold his thin body
In a long embrace.
She is attended today by
Cardinals, titmice, sparrows, finches,
Chickadees, bluejays, purple finches
And two woodpeckers, one redbellied
The other hairy. The usual crows
Are conspicuously absent since this
Is one of the days they're obliged
To make deliveries in Hell.
(I read once a book about things
Believed in Indiana one of which
Concerned crows bringing
Small rocks to Hell. Crows are clever
And would soon figure out that the trip
Might be more profitable if they
Took along other things too)
Having time and inclination I visited
The idols of the marketplace after
They'd swept the steps, put up the shutters
And put a closed sign in the window.
There were three of them that day
More than enough for a small branch.
A worshipper had left them tea. They gave me a glass
Which I drank through a sugar lump.
Yes, they remembered my father,
A friendly man who came by sometimes
But never asked them for anything.
You don't see angels much now because
In 1285, on his twentieth birthday,
Duns Scotus wondered how many of them
Could dance on the head of a pin.
The angels wondered too and, clubbing
Their meagre savings, bought a pin
One started dancing a pavanne,
More and more climbed on, no two of them
Doing the same steps until Uriel and Jibrial
Invented the waltz. Soon after,
The fallen angels arrived, breathless,
And introduced line dancing. Turns out
A pinhead provides ample room for
All the angels that are or were or could be
Since they've location but no mass.
God assumes that, in time, the angels
Will tire of dancing and resume
Obeying His behests.
(Some say the angels
Don't dance on the head of a pin
But on its point. This is, of course, nonsense.
Where would the musicians sit and where
Would you find space for the buffet?)
In high school I used to disappear
For hours or days or weeks at a time
My body remained behind, doing
A credible job of impersonation.
When I returned there'd be notes --
Not very detailed but enough that I
Could pass again as myself.
I never noticed I was leaving
I always knew when I came back.
Suppose one day
Your body
Hangs out a sign:
"Fine property
Soon to be vacant
Needs some repair;
Would be perfect
For young soul
With handyman skills."
You protest that you
Have always understood
That bodies decay but
Souls are immortal.
Your body simply
Lifts an eyebrow
And shrugs saying
"I just work here."
Traditionally, the Goddess Freya
Travels in a cart pulled by cats
This seldom works out well
And explains why Freya
Is often found in places
She didn't mean to be.
