KKEP IN MIND

 

Carnea, the Roman goddess

Of door-hinges, has 

A license to forgive sins so long

As they aren't major 

And involve hardware.

MUSETTE

 

My father's friend John Drachmann

Could've died several times in the War

But his musette bag -- a hardy confection

Of brass and canvas -- would have survived

Anything short of a direct hit by a shell

Or being doused in gasoline and set on fire.

He gave it to me when he gave away

Everything that reminded him he'd been a soldier.

My brother got his dogtags and bitterly regretted

Our mother not letting him have a spent bullet

On which John had scratched his initials.

COURT

 

Entering the courtroom you must

Be prepared for anything. You may

Be tossed a robe and expected

To sit up high, rendering judgments.

Equally, you may have to put on

Clothes that don't fit, a jailhouse pallor

And a look of anxious guilt as you mutter

"Not guilty, Your Honor." Or you may

Be left almost featureless prepared

To be the spectator who's wandered in

Since it's raining and he's nowhere else to be.

DREAMLIFE

 

When I was fifteen or so I had a series

Of the most boring dreams imaginable --

Worse, even, than Prince Genji's dream

About having fallen asleep. In my dreams

Quite ordinary things happened -- I went to school

And came home. The things I learned

Were plausible; I remained fully dressed,

Never found I had to take a test in a room

That hid itself. I did exactly as well on dream tests

As I did on real ones. My friends behaved

As they usually did. One of them told me

His sister was getting married. (If she'd been three

I might have said "I'm dreaming," but she was 26.)

Perhaps these dreams were rejected drafts

For my actual days. No harm was done; I just have

Clear memories of things that never happened.

WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT MY GRANDMOTHER AND HER DAUGHTERS

 

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.

DUST

 

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.

MAKING IT CLEAR

 

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).