Esther was an accomplished woman who could
Make noodles from scratch or learn a language
From her children's books or safely use for years
A kitchen knife that had a curse on it. When she died
Her four surviving daughters -- who got their noodles
From boxes -- decided the best thing to do
Would be to bury the knife and the second best thing
Would be to not tell their brothers where they buried it.
I don't know what Heaven's like
When you see it but my Heaven
Is filled with dust -- dust on the ground
And on the immortal wheels which
Turn and turn and must keep turning.
It slows-filters from the dusklit sky, lighting
On wings and halos, on harps and horns.
It isn't glorious (as many things in Heaven are)
Nor terrible (as some things in Heaven are);
It's the same dust you might see anywhere on Earth
Resting on the doorsills in an old house
Covering the floor of the box room
Hiding, almost, a small green idol
Lost long ago in another place entirely.
Under the former dispensation the Shadow of God
Was just that -- a shadow, though one of
Particular weight and substance not the one-ply
Sort of thing must people drag around with them.
It had free will and, when God wasn't using it,
A life of its own -- much of it, alas, spent
Among alewives and tosspots and in places
Of low repute. People wary of approaching God
Would seek out His shadow who, for a drink
Or a meal or smile would offer advice
Or, once in a very great while, a miracle.
Dispensations pass; the new one
Includes the Angel of Clarification whose job
Is to insert (in parentheses) explanations
That words don't mean what they say
As in "Safe in God's hands (not that He has hands)"
Or "Tremble before God's Wrath (not that He feels wrath"
Or "In the Heart of God (not that He has a heart)."
The Shadow of God resents this and every time
The Angel approaches him with parentheses
Gives him so fierce a look that the Angel,
Pretending he hasn't noticed him,
Asks the nearest alewife for a stiff drink
(Not that angels have money).
The annual meeting of
The Thirty-Six Immortals
Of Japanese Poetry with
The Thirty-Six Female Immortals
Of Japanese Poetry always features
A baseball game after lunch.
Ono No Komachi is, of course
Both an Immortal and a Female Immortal;
Last year, she pitched for both sides.
Facing herself from the batter's box
She called "Umpire, attend closely-
There is bad blood between us;
Keep a sharp eye out for beanballs!"
Like the old, New Heaven
Goes on forever; the guards
March through the dust --
Well, some of them march
Others amble or mosey or
Sidle or shuffle or breakdance or
Walk on their hands --
Looking for something
They can call a border.
Occasionally one of them --
Mutters "what made us think
'Center everywhere,
Circumference nowhere'
Could possibly be a good idea?"
Before Death was Death Death
Didn't ride a bone horse or
Carry a scythe. Instead there was
A ragged old woman who did the job
When she found time for it, stuffing souls
Into a patched coarse-woven sack.
Sometimes, she begged or told stories
To unseen audiences. In season
She'd pick hops or beans from dawn
To dusk; no one could die then until the moon
And stars showed themselves plain in the sky.
I'm not sure how Saint Jerome saw my poem;
He never reads anything now but newspapers and flyers
And food wrappers but somehow he knew
I'd written about finding God asleep.
His swift-fluttering hands and expressive face
Told me to be careful; Jerome had once also
Come upon God when He slept. It was a winter day
In the 1950s, when Jerome found God
Asleep on Jerome's regular sleeping space
On a grating outside Macy's. There was, in those days,
A delicate arrangement among the homeless men
Of midtown Manhattan. Your sleeping spot,
The cardboard you slept on, the dog or lion
With whom you shared your food or your wine
Was yours alone. Jerome and six others
Carefully carried God down the street
To Penn Station and left Him in the last car
Of a train to Montauk, an expired ticket
In His hand. They tucked a few nickels
And six dimes in His pocket in case
He was hungry when He woke up.
The next thing Jerome remembers
It was 1963 and he was in the middle
Of hopping a freight train near the docks
In Puerto Princessa. It took him years
To get back to Seventh Avenue and by then
A saint he'd never heard of had taken over his grate.
Two days before St. Jerome intends to appear in a dream
His lion comes by to make arrangements.
Eccentric though he is -- homeless, speechless
And spending his daylight hours dozing in doorways
On Seventh Avenue -- the saint retains his self-respect
So you must avoid any of your sillier
Or more horrifying dreams -- no naked shenanigans,
No monsters, no jump scares, no fanged vegetables.
Since Jerome hasn't spoken since half-past
The Fall of Constantinople you must, as I am,
Be fluent in sign language in your dreams.
The day after your dream the lion returns
To pick up whatever Jerome left behind --
A comb, say, or some rusted keys or a red cardinal's hat.
Inside a minute -- an old one ,
Set aside for some reason that
Seemed important -- I found God
Curled up, asleep. I suppose
I could have waked Him right then
But rushed off instead figuring
A saint would be useful if God
Woke up angry. There were three saints
Right outside, arguing. We hurried back
But the minute was gone. St. Crescentia
Said "Try shouting loudly," but Anthony's pig
Shook his head. saying "Suppose"
We wake someone else entirely?
It's two in the morning and
Sweetened tea in a blue-glass cup
Is coming up the stairs to the attic
Where my father, years before
He met my mother, is awake
As always at two a.m. He notices
But mostly ignores me; spirits are
Nothing unusual to him. Lately
I've been joined by Irina, my great aunt
Who -- this is 1943 -- is recently dead.
Since I'm unborn the two of us
Are equal in this room. The rules require us both
To disappear just before the door opens
And the tea and my grandmother and,
Some nights, a piece of cake come in.
All the vampires in town seems to think
They can park their unused reflections with me,
Crowding my mirror so I when I try to shave
I can hardly see my own face among
Those of the vampires all glittery-eyed,
Hoping this will be the morning
When my razor finally slips. Also, vampires
Are up all night and seem to think I like
Phone calls at 2 AM asking me to go check
Whether there's something caught in Nosferatu's teeth
Or if Vlad's hair looks better parted on the left.
Scuff your feet a while, every border guard knows,
And like as not you'll see an angel conjuring itself
Out of the dust you've raised. Angels can make bodies
From anything -- air, leaves, regret, unpaid bills --
But in this part of Heaven they're partial to dust.
Other angels, especially the heavyweights with names
And attributes, think this foolish but they're
At the center of everything and don't care that Heaven,
Is illimitable and has no border so the guards
And angels charged with guarding it
Must amuse themselves as best they can.
It's not hard to find Saint Jerome
Most days he makes his slow way
Up and down Seventh Avenue wearing
The ragged remains of a cardinal's outfit.
You'll know it's him -- he still looks pretty much
As he did when El Greco painted him
In 1609. Saints can bilocate so if he wished
He could visit the Frick Museum any night --
It's just two avenues over, on Fifth --
And look at himself while getting his rest
Asleep in a doorway, out of the wind.
His lion, who worries about him,
Has often urged him to do just that.
By some error, though we were
Seeking to summon the
Thirty-Six Immortals of
Japanese Poetry so we could
Paint them for the Shogun, we
Wound up with Thirty-five Immortals
Of Japanese Poetry and a bear.
There's no time to try again;
Assistant! Get that bear a writing brush!
Bear! Do your best to look immortal!
Ono No Komachi! Stop laughing!
By some error, while we were
Seeking to summon the
Thirty-Six Immortals of
Japanese Poetry so we could
Paint them for the Shogun we
Wound up with Thirty-five Immortals
Of Japanese Poetry and a bear.
There is no time to try again;
Assistant! Get that bear a writing brush!
Bear! Do your best to look immortal!
Ono No Komachi! Stop laughing!
The great sage
Eleazar
Could, by magic,
Make food appear
Unfortunately,
Only cucumbers
(Still!)
Speaking as a mermaid I
Consider saints unnatural
Creatures who benefit
Unfairly from having unlimited
Lines of Credit from the Bank
Of God. Speaking as a saint I
Suspect mermaids to be dubious
Metaphors inspired by
An unhealthy distaste for sex
And women in general.
Speaking as both : The Universe
Does things it will probably regret
If ever it comes back to its senses.
There was no saint on duty so a
Visiting arhat was pressed
Into service to tell the gathering
That an assembly of all the angels
That are or were or ever might be
Would be dangerous and unlawful "unless,"
He added, "they're dancing on the point
Of a pin. That, of course, is quite all right."
The machine looking through me
Grumbles and clanks and shrieks
With exasperation. Why is that bone there?
You call those kidneys? I could make better ones
From pipe-cleaners and a plastic sponge!
And what's that thing pretending I don't see it?
Really, when they put this man together
They should've come to me for advice.
Hey you -- Yechiel called Charles!
And you -- Someone called Shepsie!
I've not enough of either of you
For a poem but the customer's urgent
And no one else is on duty tonight
Do you think between the two of you
You can manage to cast a shadow?
Yechiel,
You're up first. What facts are known
About you? Well, you once managed
Some sort of factory and saw a girl
Who wore red striped stockings
While she worked; you married her
And had eight children one of whom
Was my mother's step-mother Fanny.
That she, the designated "stay at home
Caring for your parents daughter" got married
Did not release her from her duty;
You and your wife Zlateh called Jenny,
But also called Goldie, lived out your years
In my grandfather Joe's house
Where Jenny quickly made its kitchen
The People's Republic of Jenny.
My mother could always enter freely;
Everyone else had to ask or be invited.
(Enough already with Zlateh-Jenny-Goldie!
Another word and the poem is hers;
God knows what she'd do with it! )
How did Charles spend the day?
Not known. (There's a confused tale
Of him building a house that fell down.)
Did he ever learn to open a can
Of condensed milk with a meat-cleaver?
Doubtful. My mother told stories
About almost every one, but my father
Had to tell me of the striped stockings.
What've you got for me, Shepsie?
Not even your real name. I heard of you
Only once when my father and his brothers
And sisters suddenly asked each other
"Do you remember Shepsie?" They did;
He was the man who so loved their father Max
That he bought a grave next to Max's -- nowhere near
Where Shepsie's family lies.
Shepsie would do anything for Max
But a good day's work; every so often Max
Had to fire him. Then he'd hire him back
Since how could he let Shepsie starve?
We must be getting near the end of the poem;
I can see a moral barreling down the road,
Weaving dangerously as it goes. Well,
Maybe not a genuine moral but more
Of an observation: In life some of us
Get the girl in red stockings who knows
How to open a can with a meat cleaver
And some of us get Shepsie.
