And Though God’s Eye
is
on the sparrow, this one
on the sparrow, this one
nevertheless falls today to earth
having dashed itself head-long
against
against
the windowed wall of my study, a
pane
pane
it did not see in time to save
itself.
itself.
The unbroken wing folds.
The blank black bead of an eye
looks skyward.
looks skyward.
By the time a trowel can be found
in the musty shed with which to
bury
bury
the small, newly-dead, first stars
shine
shine
overhead along the edges of space.
The mute rooster of my neighbor’s
weathervane swings mournfully on
the spine
the spine
of his roof, quivering north, northwest.
Trees begin to shiver in a
storm-wind
storm-wind
and pink roses balance on their
tall stems
tall stems
dropping pale petals over the
final
final
resting-place. The evening tide
shushes in and out
along the Atlantic side of the
island.
island.
In the God-blink of an eye, he
fell.
fell.
Office
At The Parting Of The Soul From The Body
At The Parting Of The Soul From The Body
When
A Man Has Suffered A Long Time
A Man Has Suffered A Long Time
Gone
now, for him, the prickly
now, for him, the prickly
nettle of the body and its ambient
desires.
Gone too, the doused
Gone too, the doused
dreams, slurred wakings, a life
lately
measured in pills. Done now, the daily
measured in pills. Done now, the daily
ritual of wasting, the ruined flesh
roused
over and over from repose
over and over from repose
and conveyed, feet-first, into the argent
light
and burred clicks of the MRI. Gone
and burred clicks of the MRI. Gone
for good: catheters, syringes, the ferrous
after-taste of food on the tongue. Absent:
clock, watch, metronome, pulse.
Time,
as he’s known it, slides
as he’s known it, slides
into oblivion’s iron-white hand-
kerchief,
slipped from the mortal hand
slipped from the mortal hand
into the wine-dark casks of eternity.
Forgive
me, Father, for I have
me, Father, for I have
wanted to say to the Psalmist
and
priest and to the whole wretched
priest and to the whole wretched
scripture-wrecked Body of Christ,
Oh, for once, will you
please
just shut up.
just shut up.
The Fix
for Jonas (1939 – 1999)
1.
What if I told you my heart
travels towards you always,
travels towards you always,
still, wildflowers and purple thistle in my
fist
fist
to make up for
the pristine lilies I sent
the pristine lilies I sent
when you were buried?
Would it please
you to know
you to know
I opened your coin-purse yesterday
and emptied the
silver dimes you’d saved
silver dimes you’d saved
since 1961 into a beggar’s hat?
Or that I gave
the neighbor’s boy your slingshot and the rotted
the neighbor’s boy your slingshot and the rotted
bag of worn-smooth pebbles you called Goliath stones?
I kept your
prayer shawl, though
prayer shawl, though
I do not pray. Nights now, as firelight
burns
burns
low in the stone
hearth, it warms me
hearth, it warms me
to remember you and how, for hours, we
argued
argued
law and scripture
and whether afterlife existed
and whether afterlife existed
and, if it did, where we’d like to see
Hitler spend it.
Hitler spend it.
2.
When Death swept
through last century and stripped you
through last century and stripped you
of your little wool jacket with the
goldenrod
goldenrod
star your mother
had sewn on by hand, you
had sewn on by hand, you
vowed to have it out with God one day.
I hope you
do. I hope you fix God in your steely
do. I hope you fix God in your steely
sights and let Him have it good.
3.
I’m glad that we
were foolish then enough to lie
were foolish then enough to lie
for hours in the dew-laced river-
grass and mud,
watching for falling
watching for falling
stars so we could wish the world
whole enough that
we could be
we could be
together – Jew and not-Jew – without trouble.
But even if it
isn’t – never will be – I am thankful
isn’t – never will be – I am thankful
you were in the world with me
and that we lived
that century well
that century well
as we could between the two of us.
4.
Fifty-two
Sabbath twilights now, I’ve washed
Sabbath twilights now, I’ve washed
at this sink, watching darkness sweep
through
through
wiping the
evening gold and rose from the sky
evening gold and rose from the sky
and throwing its shadow over every thing
I’ve tried
to get by heart: the too-unruly lawn gone gray,
to get by heart: the too-unruly lawn gone gray,
the river’s face a sable blank, the
crooked half-wall
crooked half-wall
vanished. I’ve watched the lights
come warmly up in other people’s houses
while
everything I think I know plunges
everything I think I know plunges
blackly out of sight.
If, one day,
the sky goes wholly-dark
the sky goes wholly-dark
I want to believe that, somewhere,
beyond the
old blood-gospels of sacrifice
old blood-gospels of sacrifice
and slaughter, of ritual and religion,
beyond
beyond
the small
firelights of our own time and space, a new
firelights of our own time and space, a new
gospel of love will open before us
there –
wherever we might find ourselves –
wherever we might find ourselves –
like a new tongue we’ve want most to
learn.
learn.
Anne Caston is a professor and former nurse. She was as 1996-97 Jay C. and Ruth Halls Poetry Fellow at University of Wisconsin-Madison and the 1999-2000 Jenny McKean Moore Fellow in Poetry at the George Washington University in Washington DC. Currently, Anne Caston is core faculty in poetry in the Low-Residency M.F.A. Program in Creative Writing at the University of Alaska Anchorage. She is author of Flying Out With The Wounded (NYU Press, 1997) Judah’s Lion (THP, 2009), and Prodigal (Aldrich Press, 2014). She lives with her husband, Ian Gallimore, in Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina.
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Thank you, Deb & Linda, for featuring these today. So honored!
Anne
Lovely, Anne. Love the irreverence of "Office…" A lot. Great to read your work. Happy Holidays. We fly on Thursday, to Colorado, but back in a week. ~ Sandy
Beautiful, Anne. Just beautiful.