“Priesthoods and beasthoods, sombers and glees […]” – Christian Wiman
Just beyond the edge of dusk’s cold kiln,
a startle of starlings over the ashen river,
black peppercorns against an eggplant sky,
incandescent without ever intending to be.
Scriptures and strictures, hallows and hollows, the tangible throb—
A woman with a cross atop her blouse
bellows blades outside the abortion clinic,
a man wearing a teal turban buys an extra
maakouda for the beggar at the corner.
Harm or harmony—toward which will religion swerve?—
Meanwhile, an axolotl grins shyly;
green moss perches on parched bark;
softly spiked virions float aimlessly,
get sucked into an unsuspecting lung.
This land a sea strewn generously with marvels and perils—
The jagged blue clefts of glacier ice,
the tomato hue of an altiplano laguna,
a stranger with lavender hair passing,
pennies glistening on the pavement.
Inspiration and aspiration, all we look upon and do not see—
A friend turns my way and the screen in
my hand seems weightless and worthless.
After all these years, I’m still startled
when I hear my name uttered by another.
Ben, there’s your name. You probably know that Emerson said no honors or titles could surpass having one’s name well spoken. Great job, buddy. You rocked my little blip on the radar screen of the universe.
Pat, many thanks for taking the time to write this comment a couple weeks ago! My apologies for forgetting to respond until now. There’s lots of truth in that Emerson quote, so I appreciate you typing out my name! Writing poems is such a solitary act, so it’s always a little amazing to me when another human connects to one of mine. Glad you got rocked a tad. (I will share that my debut collection is coming out next May–I mention that only in case you want to keep an eye out for it and get rocked a bit more!) 😀