Life in a Sterile Environment: A Case Study
1.
Manna must be pried
from the road. A tow headed boy
helps me. We’re a couple:
mother/son, father/daughter,
lovers. The mind is made
to accept so much, truth
we couldn’t possibly verify
except to point out
new hairs around my nipples.
Al growth will have to come
from within. These rocks
are not unlike the puffball cakes
I sprinkle sugar over
on holidays.
2.
We pile manna on my skirt.
I’m only ashamed of not being much
to look at. Once
I dreamt of stripping
in front of Hajek’s Bakery,
lying prone on hot cobblestone
until officers covered me
with a sheet.
The boy thinks only of manna,
should we eat it raw
or cooked? Should we save some
or is it true the supply’s inexhaustible?
I give him a piece, he won’t swallow it,
won’t be greedy in this time of plenty,
he can’t remember ever having more
not in the last hundred years.
He’d forgotten how long he’s lived,
How much he’s eaten can’t die
or starve. He throws the manna,
hands me my skirt.
There’s something eternal at work,
not the long-sought peace but. absence.
3.
We sketch birds in the dirt,
stare at them till they fly away
then we thank any idea of God
that remains in the rubble
of St. Andrew’s
holding hands so tightly
we break the nails;
yes, we were good parents,
he tells me, staring at the empty sky,
we let go.
He leads me to the fishmonger’s stall:
Interpreter, tour guide, seeing eye,
Composer of epitaphs,
Here, seek-brick-hued carp
shined like new money
That’s when you buy,
after the ice under them melts,
after they stink. A good price then.
He spins a wheel of the overturned cart,
starts the monger’s steely voice.
“Love for sale.” Buy it, I plead.
“Going once.” Buy it. “Going twice.”
“Gone.”
4.Final observationsThe couple who has everything
leaves the stall, hugging the stinking
parcel, passing it between them.
From a distance they’re like
hosiery seams on a bowlegged woman.
After sunset they pale
into the thinnest glass,
weigh less than reflections.
Small crucifixes on filigree chains
fall through them.
