From courtesy we call him the god of the road
But his remit only runs for two blocks plus
Six houses and a tree or two on the next.
It pleases us to see him making his rounds
Picking up trash and delivering answers
To last week's prayers. Often enough
He leaves them with the wrong people.
In an experimental program Zetacorp (tm)
Will be answering prayers in selected parts
Of the tri-state area. If your answer arrives
Damaged or mis-sized or you're the sort
Who prays for things you don't really want
There will be a two week return period.
Zetacorp (tm) takes no responsibility
For the condition or mood of returned prayers
So if they snarl, bite or creep you out
With their sad little faces it's not on us.
There is another Salome, said
To be Mary's sister or cousin or aunt.
She turns up to help mourn for Jesus. Not,
It's insisted, the same as the Salome
Often pictured either dancing or
Looking --quite tenderly at times --
At St. John's head on a platter;
Still, of course, she was. It happens
Frequently. Young, you dance naked
And demand the heads of those
Who don't love you. Older, you become
A useful person to have around
At childbirths and sickbeds; the sort
Who remembers to bring a bit of myrrh --
So comforting! -- to a crucifixion.
Barry Gifford said there are
No birds in Hell. Plainly
He’s never been there
Around 3 o’clock
On a Friday afternoon.
When my Aunt Edith, still a baby, suddenly died
Her shadow remained behind. Her family, never ones
To make a fuss of things even when they probably should have,
Went on as if there was nothing strange about a shadow
With no person attached.
The problem with sitting for a portrait by Rembrandt
Was that if you didn't have a soul he'd make you one
From whatever was at hand -- a half-dead flower, say
Or a kitten's shadow and a handful of spoons.
They were wonderful souls but inconvenient
And hard to grow used to. They never wore out;
Turning up even now, looking across a canal
Or examining light falling on a piece of brocade
I'm no Christian but I've seen
Many Annunciations -- hundreds of them;
Maybe thousands. Mary is rarely the same
Her hair is red or yellow or brown or black;
Curly, straight, braided, pinned,
Covered by a plain cloth, elaborately turbaned
She is surprised, frightened, bored, submissive,
Patient, impatient, worried, serene;
Keeps on reading or puts her book aside
(Marking her place with a flower,
A leaf, a finger or -- at least once --
A pair of shears.) Sometimes she's gardening
Or cleaning or daydreaming. She sits, she stands,
She kneels to the angel who kneels also
Or doesn't. The angel is alone or has brought
A companion or two or entire hosts of angels
With discrete wings or huge ones, white
Or falcon-striped or bright enough
To embarrass a peacock. They stand
Wrapped in silence or play instruments
And dance in the sky. The announcing angel
Approaches humbly, arrogantly, gravely,
Or with the jaunty air of a favored suitor.
Now, though, comes something different --
A silent angel, poking before him a document
Triple-signed and notarized -- some sort of contract
Or decree. I was a lawyer so I know something
About notaries -- a precise and prickly lot
Who delight in procedural niceties. Where, then
Did the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost
Find IDs to show the notary? Were difficulties made
About Christ's age? ("Yes, I understand--
Co-extensive with the universe -- but when,
Exactly, were You born? Some time next winter?
.... So. So. So. Ah! Can I speak for a moment
With Your Father?")
