CHECKING

 

An angel comes by now and then

And knocks on the box, saying

"Cat! Are you alive?" 

The cat says "yes" or "no" 

Or "yes and no" or "neither yes

Nor no" or, if it's feeling cranky,

"Who is it wants to know?" 

COMPANEROS

 

When I was in college I wrote

Any number of poems in which Death and I

Were close friends. In some we rode motorcycles;

(The wind blew his cowl back as we sped along;

How hard he worked to keep his robes untangled!)

In others we wandered or fought or looked for jobs 

Or called each other on the phone or looked at stars

Until we fell --almost -- into the sky.

I haven't written such poems in years.

The Death I deal with now is young, efficient

Humorless; he wouldn't know

One end of a scythe from the other.

WHO

Wrapped against the cold

I no longer know

Which one of us I am.

A BURIAL

 

They were buried sitting upright

She was in his lap; his arms around her waist.

The man was given cleated hel-shoes

To make easier his march into death.

The woman was not; it was presumed

She'd ride in a wagon pulled by dead horses. 

Archaeologists think they'd each been given 

A pouch filled with foreign coins

Though the woman wound up with both

Because even dead witches have their tricks.

A spear was thrown into the grave just before

The dirt was shovelled back in to say

"Your way is forward; do not return."

SALT

 

For love of my mother, her step-grandmother Jenny

Shook herself into something like she'd been

And made a last and very beautiful loaf of bread

To celebrate my mother's firstborn, my brother.

No one could figure out how this long loaf

Had fit in Jenny's small oven nor how

Such swollen, stiff fingers had braided the dough

Into a masterpiece of the baker's art. Age, though,

Spitefully tripped Jenny up. Baking is a dance.

But when the music said "reach for the salt

And throw in just enough of it" her mind wandered.

There was no salt in the bread at all. It was beautiful. 

It was inedible. Had their just been some salt

My brother's life, I think, might have been different.

RISING

 

When Ragnorak comes, says Snòrri,

Roosters will desert their farms

And crow in graveyards until

We dead folk wake up. It's not quite clear

What our role's meant to be; the scheduled battles

Seem mostly to involve gods and monsters. 

It may be we're to fight the heroes

Who've been training for centuries in Valhalla 

Or the b-team heroes from Freya's Hall.

If so, don't bet on us; we're not the ones

Who got buried in armor with swords and war-axes

And spears and seaxes and shields

With twisty dragons painted on them.

Perhaps we're meant just to watch,

Making a knowledgeable comment now and then

"Well hammered, Thor! Nicely bitten, Fenris!

Ooh, bit of bad luck there, Odin!" 

If roosters try to wake me I mean

To throw a shoe at them and go on being dead.

PICTURE

 

Yes, we know that we

Are Tragic Lovers

Whose Unfortunate End

Is Inevitable. Still,

There's no reason we

Cannot pause to watch

The sunset and have

A quiet smoke together.