PROVENDER

 

The great sage 

Eleazar 

Could, by magic,

Make food appear

Unfortunately,

Only cucumbers

(Still!) 

LI BAN

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.

BUT WHO MAKES THE MUSIC?

 

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."

MACHINE INTELLIGENCE

 

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.

FAMILY

 

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.

 

IN THE MARKET

 

That woman from whom you 

Just now bought a shoelace -- 

Sturdy, dark-eyed, a bit stout --

Was Persephone until she saw

Some Spring's first blossom 

And wasn't at all surprised.

MIRROR

 

Knowing it's for the last time, he leaves his bed

And goes to say farewell to his reflection

Who fails to keep the appointment, sending

Some transparently untrustworthy stranger

With uncombed hair and shifty eyes.

BEING INFORMED

 

Esther would have known that after she died

It would be necessary to spill out any water

Standing in the house no matter where it was

Since the Angel of Death -- known to be 

Curiously fastidious -- might have rinsed his knife

Before hurrying to his next appointment. 

RIDER AND DRIVER

 

Since it's just the sort of overpowered black car

You'd expect Death to have I'm not surprised 

To see him driving it, his hands at ten and two;

My Aunt Rose, having called shotgun, sits beside him.

This too is not surprising though I wonder

How she persuaded him to wear a chauffeur's cap.

She nods at me and carefully turns one gloved hand

Thirty degrees to the left then thirty degrees to the right --

A monarch acknowledging a subject's existence.

She looks pretty well, all things considered,

Her eyes still blue and sharp and cold.

FLUTE

 

Silence is, of course,

Silence so when I ask

What's with the flute

You're carrying

She says 

Nothing but points

To the small drum

She has strapped to her hip 

Which I suppose

Wanted company.

ACCESSORIZING

 

1918; Max reads Charles Reznikoff's poem

About the shopgirls leaving work

So the rats and roaches can begin their shifts

Reznikoff's family makes hats. Sometimes

Reznikoff sells them. Max makes coats.

On her day off, a shopgirl -- I see her

As tall and thin and talkative, moving

Rapidly or not at all -- could wear

A Reznikoff hat and a Max-made coat;

My other grandfather, Joe 

Could make a watch for her. No;

It's 1918 and Joe is in the army. His father

Juda will have to make it and sell it

From his shop on a street that will disappear

Thirty years later to make an approach

To the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel. Still

We in 1918 could care less; we're thinking

Of that tall shopgirl and wondering

What, if anything, she's wearing

Besides a coat and a hat and a watch.

PRAYER

 

I have sinned, Saint 467 --

Intercede for me and I

Will build for you an altar

Between those of Saint 394

Who once lent me ten dollars

And Saints 606 and 909

One of whom gave me a cat.

PLAINSPEAKING

 

If it thought you'd understand, your shadow

Would say "Those birds in that tree over there

Are planning something -- it is urgent

That you stop and listen to them!"

Later, it might wake you at midnight

Saying, "The ghost who owes you a favor

Is at your door -- she cannot stay long --

Go let her in!"

MAKER

 

When there is one God, says Sobek, 

Holding a beer in his thick-clawed hand,

It is His nature to fill everywhere,

To be everything. This leaves no room 

For anyone else. Think how lonely that is!

You try to amuse Yourself; You invent Time

Hoping something will happen; nothing does 

Until there is something else. Usually a dog. 

Someday, though, a crocodile. Just wait

And see what sort of universe God will make

When He has a crocodile!

ROUTINE

 

If/When you find yourself

In Schrodinger's Box remember

To feed and not feed 

The cat before changing 

And not changing her litter.

Then, let her sit

On your lap, purring

And not purring until 

She falls asleep with 

Her green eyes wide open.

COMMUNAL PRAYER

Perhaps God is a bit deaf so that
Ten men must talk together
To make Him hear and, even so,
He often misses some fine nuance
Or misunderstands us entirely.

NOT BUILT TO LAST

Named angels last but
Nameless ones flicker
In and out of existence
So when God told
A nameless angel
With a long nose
And lank red hair
That He, due to His nature,
Was the only being able
To know both the location
And velocity of a particle
At the same time the poor thing
Had just time to say “Ah”
Before vanishing forever

FANNY AND JENNY AND MY MOTHER

 

My mother's stepmother Fanny

Did not, every witness agrees, love her

But kept her marriage bargain and

Taught the child all manner of things

Such as how to fold contour sheets

How to sew a dress from a pattern

How to buy meat, vegetables, fruit

How to bargain and not be cheated.

In the kitchen of her house her mother Jenny

Spent her days -- a woman so powerful

That I know many stories about her

And only two about her husband and both of them

Are mostly about Jenny anyway. She ruled the kitchen

But where her husband spent his days

Who knows? Perhaps to spite her daughter 

Jenny was madly in love with my mother

And taught her that opals and peacock feathers

Bring bad luck and that a knife must never

Be given to a friend; demand something for it --

A penny will do -- or it will cut the friendship.

TRANSCIENCE

 

For nine hundred years

The blue vase has warned

In black Persian letters

That nothing lasts.

It looks water-tight;

If the museum allowed,

It could hold flowers.

TRUE STORY

 

The rare illness that was supposed

To finish off my mother's stepmother

Found her a very tough customer

So much so that one of her doctors

Meeting her in the street said

"Mrs. Lemport -- you're still alive?"

AGO

 

There's a picture of Death

Taken when he was young

And still feeling his way.

He's in a boat, leaning back,

Looking into the sky. A woman

Sits opposite him with the oars

Doing all the work.

HOW IT WORKS

 

At various points in the sky there are

Rabbits posted. Every so often they leave

Their holes (you cannot imagine a hole in

The sky because you are not a

Rabbit) and see the Sun barreling down at

Them. "You again!" they mutter and give it a

Hard kick to speed it on its way.

HESITATION

 

The crow flies off.

A moment later

His shadow follows

LOOKING FOR RELIGION

 

Every now and then Cotyto,

The Thracian goddess of immorality

Leaves a pamphlet in my mailbox

Or a flyer under my door handle

Advising me she's still doing business

At the old address -- the one

I never could find fifty years ago.

ANGER

 

I read that one overmastered by anger

Should pray to St. Jerome. Having no reason

To walk down Seventh Avenue, where he sleeps

Most nights in doorways, I haven't seen Jerome

In years but, being angry, sought him out.

We sat together, not speaking, being angry together.

MIRACLES

 

As if she didn't have enough on her plate

She wakes to find she's become a saint

With unlimited access to the illimitable Grace of God

She slams her coffee mug down, breaking it

Then irritably makes the pieces reassemble.

MONUMENT

 

As everyone knows, Gian Giacomo Trivulzio

Led the French invasion of Milan in 1499

And later commissioned Leonardo da Vinci

To build him a tomb which -- no surprise! --

Was never built. His tombless ghost haunts

Leonardo's designs, frightening no one

WORKMANSHIP

 

If we did our job right you'll scarcely hear it:

Just a very soft click when twilight starts

If we were in a hurry, though, there might be

A rasp or a shrill squeak. We've an arrangement

With certain corvids for such occasions.

Who make themselves conspicuous so you'll think

It was just a contrary grackle or some angry crows.

OUT

 

When he was a clothing cutter my grandfather Max

Didn't go home during busy season but slept,

As did the other workers, on the cutting tables

Or on piles of fabric. At the beginning of the season

Their dreams expected to find them in their beds

And, disappointed, might be seen moving slowly

Through the late-night streets, cursing their ill-fortune.

Max's friend Shepsie -- his real name is lost now

And may have been lost then -- had just one dream

It was ragged from having been dreamt so often

And though the tailors did their best for it,

Sewing up holes and patching it with remnants,

The police sometimes arrested it for vagrancy.