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.
