At least 800 gods attended, checking their attributes
At the door so that you couldn't tell one from another
Most of them lost their claim tickets and just grabbed
The first things they could find. Some of them
Were very good at grabbing which is why Baba Yaga
Is now in charge of love, war, shellfish, mold,
Marzipan, kittens, pied horses, chess bishops and
Tuesday mornings between five-thirty and seven.
Every few centuries Sobek renews
His license to be a crocodile. If being a god
Becomes impossible, he'll still be able
To make a living. He finds New York cold
Though he's been here for years.
Having nowhere else to be an hour
After the sun's left its posts
I see him spellbound by a Christmas window
Watching automatons repeat themselves endlessly.
Baba Yaga knows the names and addresses
Of the eight hundred gods of Litosk
The seven hundred demons of Goray
The five hundred golems of Neisau-Hrodnay
The four hundred demigods of Wilniu
And the three hundred nameless spirits
Who are forbidden to enter cities and sleep
In fields or in haystacks. Prayers meant for them
Must go through her. Some she forwards.
Some she answers. Some, refashioned,
She sends out to look out for themselves.
The provincial players are rehearsing
Waiting to be background for the miracle
To be performed when the saint --
Or an angel? Or God Himself? --
Arrives from the capital. Professionals,
They don't complain that no one
Has told them what the miracle is to be.
The fainting woman -- she does Mary the Virgin
A treat at Depositions -- is practicing falling backwards
Into the arms of an ostler and a smith. The man
Who runs by without noticing the Important Event
Is doing his stretching exercises. The child
Of indeterminate gender is feeding the cat
She'll tease once things get going. The extras
Discuss whether they should arrange themselves
As three small groups or one big one.
(The horse and the chickens are there in case
This is one of the miracles that require livestock.)
I have seen at least a thousand
Pictures of Mount Fuji but
If it passed me on the street
Would I recognize it at once
But preserve its incognito?
Would I shout "Mount Fuji!
Welcome to New York!" Perhaps
I'd walk right by or would assume
It was some other distinguished mountain --
Poroshiri, say, or Arakara or Ibuki --
Examining the statues in Seward Park.
I don't know if this is still so but
In Union Square the pigeons
Used to study the men and boys
Playing chess, preparing
For the change in the world's mechanics
That would require them to take up the game.
(There were few girls and women
Hunched over the boards back then
But perhaps in high summer
Some would hide in the leaves of
The trees -- Siberian Elms in particular --
Playing lightning rounds of chess,
Making small bets and occasionally
Dropping nuts on the men below.)
When Nishikawa Sukenobu forgot to lock his landscapes
Characters from other pictures would walk in
And act as if they belonged there. In one of them
Two geisha from different prints mean to comfort
A third who walks ahead of them but unfortunately
They've been distracted by butterflies and purple flowers.
A servant walks behind them, carrying lunch. In another
Some old men, an old woman and two young ones
Enjoy Nishikawa's gently unfurling road.
One of the men has his head on wrong making him always
Peer into the sky. His companions seem unconcerned
Knowing that that in some other picture
They'll find the tools and men to help put it right.
A half moon races across the sky; two black birds,
Jokesters, tell each other outlandish stories.
If only the doctor or one of the nurses
Had thought about it I'm sure someone
Would have said "This baby's born -- wrap him
And his mom in blankets! Circus starts
In five minutes just across the street. Hustle!
I bet we can all make it in four."
On the paper's front page it said
BEST BABY EVER, KILLED!
Well, the words were "Palestinian mother
Holds baby daughter killed in air raid"
But I knew this was the best baby ever
Since they all are. As a Kohain I am,
If you push back far enough to get
To the Bible, the grandson of Aaron
The first high priest. This means Moses is
My great uncle, more or less. Kohains
Are entitled to wear a turban and a sash
And to collect five shekels at a bris. Also
We're supposed to obey all sorts of rules
Including never looking on a corpse.
See one? Take off your turban and sash;
Don't enter prayer houses until you've been purified.
So, what purifies me after seeing the small corpse
Of the best baby ever? I asked Uncle Moses
Who said, really, he'd never gotten over
All those Egyptians drowning in the Red Sea.
"I grew up in the palace, remember; I knew
Most of those soldiers. Thousands of years it is
But ask and I'll sing you one of their songs."
After all these years Mount Fuji still
Does not understand Basho's poem
About the frog in the well.
My father's ghost says "Fuji,
The frog, too, is mystified."
I find it oddly pleasant that you,
Appreciating my aesthetic value,
Look on me without fear. Perhaps
You don't know I am a curse
Captured in wood. If you were wise
You'd drive a nail into me
Forcing me to turn on my axis
And defend you from the enemies
I see hovering around you.
