The Gravity of Desire
In the old Frankenstein movie,
the little girl sees the heart
of the monster--not his face,
not the zipper in his head,
his sunken eyes, his hollow cheeks,
nor the open gash upon his forehead.
She has not learned
the shallow protocols of beauty,
the desperate history of human peril.
He has a puppy smile for her--
his untaught speech, the softest bark.
She takes his hand, she gives him flowers.
The shouts and fury of the mob,
the chase, the midnight torches--
he does not know this joy, this sweetness,
can not conceive at all what this is.
Some ache, some yearn for tenderness
tears loose, wells up his borrowed skin,
for truth to tell, despite his graveyard features,
they both are really only children in a garden.
So when they start to laugh and play
and toss some daisies in the sea,
how is she supposed to know he doesn't know
that innocence is more dangerous than sin,
that bodies can break in the crush of desire,
that love must know of gravity and weight--
that water can sometimes kill like fire.
In the old Frankenstein movie,
the little girl sees the heart
of the monster--not his face,
not the zipper in his head,
his sunken eyes, his hollow cheeks,
nor the open gash upon his forehead.
She has not learned
the shallow protocols of beauty,
the desperate history of human peril.
He has a puppy smile for her--
his untaught speech, the softest bark.
She takes his hand, she gives him flowers.
The shouts and fury of the mob,
the chase, the midnight torches--
he does not know this joy, this sweetness,
can not conceive at all what this is.
Some ache, some yearn for tenderness
tears loose, wells up his borrowed skin,
for truth to tell, despite his graveyard features,
they both are really only children in a garden.
So when they start to laugh and play
and toss some daisies in the sea,
how is she supposed to know he doesn't know
that innocence is more dangerous than sin,
that bodies can break in the crush of desire,
that love must know of gravity and weight--
that water can sometimes kill like fire.
* * *
What's So
Say the truth
In the mother tongue:
We live, we die.
* * *
Paradise Redux
We start all over again.
We're ten; the world is young.
Everything is possible.
The sun is climbing
over the rim of the world.
The petals of all the roses
are parting.
The morning sky is filled
with great white wings.
The wind is spiced
with oleander.
We walk the wine land.
We stride.
We lift our hands with joy.
We do not listen
to the serpent
hissing in the tree.
* * *
Ave Maria
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
don't you sometimes wish
you'd been just some regular Jewish girl
like Rachel, Sarah or Shirley
from Midwood, Flatbush or The Bronx,
instead of Her Royal Highness,
Virgin, Madonna, Regent of the Skies--
and that that boy of yours
had grown up to be a broker or a lawyer
or some big-shot cardiologist
instead of giving you
all that grief and tsuris?
Then you wouldn't have to stand
around all day posing in a niche,
your hands folded stiff and aching,
to hear the desperate supplications
of the tired and the poor
hoping for some possible impossibles.
You've become the pawn of priests.
They're making a mint on you,
selling you on picture cards
casting you in bronze.
You're Plaster of Paris kitsch, a shanda,
the darling of delusional girls.
Haven't you had enough?
The hungry of this world are starving,
they need their human feed.
Mother of God,
stop with the miracles, already!
Do you remember your mama and your bubie
working the table top in Nazareth?
Roll some matzah balls--
make some chicken soup instead!
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
don't you sometimes wish
you'd been just some regular Jewish girl
like Rachel, Sarah or Shirley
from Midwood, Flatbush or The Bronx,
instead of Her Royal Highness,
Virgin, Madonna, Regent of the Skies--
and that that boy of yours
had grown up to be a broker or a lawyer
or some big-shot cardiologist
instead of giving you
all that grief and tsuris?
Then you wouldn't have to stand
around all day posing in a niche,
your hands folded stiff and aching,
to hear the desperate supplications
of the tired and the poor
hoping for some possible impossibles.
You've become the pawn of priests.
They're making a mint on you,
selling you on picture cards
casting you in bronze.
You're Plaster of Paris kitsch, a shanda,
the darling of delusional girls.
Haven't you had enough?
The hungry of this world are starving,
they need their human feed.
Mother of God,
stop with the miracles, already!
Do you remember your mama and your bubie
working the table top in Nazareth?
Roll some matzah balls--
make some chicken soup instead!