Absinthe (Degas), Sonnet #207

They say water poured in the absinthe glass
Awakens sin in the spirit, the green,
Distilled from anise, fennel, and wormwood,
Goes ghostly white; as though in some dim mass,
A transubstantiation into spleen,
Obliviousness of evil or good.
Elle has barely sipped her drink; already,
She feels her queasy stomach growing hot,
Her arms and legs loosening, unsteady,
Her soul becoming something it is not.
The cafe, full of smoke and stupid talk,
Will soon go soft, muffled, and disappear,
Like the one gone and the one almost here.
"I'll find you," she sighs, "if I can still walk."

St. Christopher Carrying the Christ Child (Hieronymus Bosch)

#41

Five years my father spent in WWII
Running a mobile army field hospital.
In New Guinea, he killed an enemy soldier
As he attacked a patient--as would you.
A devout Catholic, he prayed for safe arrival.
To the broad-backed patron of the traveler
He promised to name a child Christopher.
How many men have made a similar offer?
In '69, the Church proclaimed the saint
A myth and struck him from the Calendar,
Nullifying centuries of anxious supplication.
Bosch's work was never daubs of paint.
The universe weighs on every shoulder,
As we lurch towards our next destination.