Bread: A Parable For Our Times

I drew bread from the shelf,

As so many thousands have,

A simple act for a simple meal.

I thought, from this one place

The uncountable have been fed,

From here, this grocery store,

Where the shelf is never empty.

And not just once — I have

Performed this act of grace

So many times myself, I wonder

That there’s any more for others.

Would I take the last loaf left?

We have all done far worse things.

It wouldn’t be a crime, of course —

Someone must be the last to eat.

I could say, “There’s more bread,

Perhaps, on shelves in other stores,”

Succumbing to rationalization.

There are now thousands lined up

Behind me, waiting for me to choose.

Has every one made up their mind?

If you were me, what would you do?

The Error Of Innocence

It’s impossible, a contradiction

Of being, a false manipulation.

The mistake is in not knowing,

Like a child mimicking a curse,

Without any idea what it means.

At four I once told my brother,

“I wish you would go to hell,”

Then added, “no, don’t go to hell.”

Hell being no more than a word —

Yet I was vigorously punished

With a dozen stripes of a strap.

Some think we’re not born innocent,

Like the lion, the viper, or the lamb,

But by some withheld benediction

That can only be lost in the learning,

Which in itself taints the newly-wise.

The veins in a sick hand, febrile

And limp, are not guilty till lifted.

“The only truly innocent are dead,”

Some say. No greater lie ever said,

Because even they are burdened

By all that has come before. Not sin,

Not ignorance, but the spoken word,

The lie given breath willingly,

For no other purpose than my own.

Terror

A man in a dirty undershirt shouted

“Hey, kid!” from an upper window.

He held a pistol aimed at me and laughed.

This was on Main Street north of downtown

On a bright afternoon in August. I ran.

His laughter, like gun shots, followed me

Even around the corner. Why was he?

What was he? A drunk? A criminal?

Was he contemplating shooting himself

Because his girl had run away from him,

Her letter crumpled in his other hand?

Maybe the gun wasn’t real, a water pistol.

His laughter sounded friendly in my head,

Not taunting or meant to humiliate me.

He might have bumped his head on the sash,

Because he had gone quiet so abruptly.

Was he now bleeding, whispering curses,

And might come down and chase a kid?

It was the hottest, most humid day yet 

Of a long summer, and he was suffering,

Perhaps, so pointing a gun at anything

Took his corruption out of mind for a time,

The liquid and noisome, atom by atom,

Putrefaction of a few once-pure thoughts.

How can the mind see him now, 60 years

Later, when he’s been dead for 60 years?

The Curvature: Speedboat

The river runs straight behind my home.

An iron factory spews coke down stream

And the ashes and willows were rippedw

Into the water by a derecho last summer.

I sit with my sister on a concrete pier.

Tomorrow is her wedding day — resignation

Is a philter poisoning her halting speech.

The speedboat comes like a swarm of bees,

Yellow with long stripes of scratched black.

A man waves as he passes and ignores

My gesture to move right to deeper water.

He passes under an iron trestle and turns about.

Now he’s much too close to his right shore,

Is soon airborne, a flightless bird in flight.

(He’s hit a partially submerged concrete pier.)

The boat, now vertical, drops him backwards

And hits him with its stern as it comes down.

We hear shrieks like seabirds, see flailing arms

Try to move him toward the opposite bank.

The boat is caught in a tight circle and strikes

The man twice more before moving downstream.

My sister and I push a canoe into the water 

And try to paddle toward the thrashing man,

But the churning, circling speedboat blocks us.

People on the other shore wade in and grab him.

He has no entrails and they watch him die.

The speedboat continues to circle — as my sister

And I return to dock — to circle and circle

Until it runs out of gas and courses straight,

As though the steering wheel has been unlocked

By the empty tank, unbending its curve,

So the boat can crash, vertical again, on land.

The Curvature: Hobo’s Island

Hobos’ Island is surrounded

By shallow rapids, water on stones,

Its murmuring constant, dulcet.

I jumped off the train into woods

Banked a hundred feet above,

Onto a grass flat worn bare

By countless boots like mine,

Mud-caked, broken strings

Square-knotted, but no holes.

The climb down to the river

Was treacherous, muddy slick,

From constant spring rain,

But safe enough as I grabbed

Willow and poplar trunks.

When I stepped into the river, 

My feet felt cold and clean.

At first I saw three campfires,

Which went out as I portaged

My light, half-empty backpack.

I heard shouting and curses

And guns fired, I hoped,

Into the clear darkening sky.

Men crashed through trees

And ran through the rapids.

I laid down in cold shock,

Began to float downstream, hearing

Shouts rising through the woods

I’d just before descended.

I knew that was no way back.

Something bumped my shoulder —

A section of old picket fence.

I grabbed it, but didn’t climb

On until the fracas was well

Behind me. I lay on my back,

Not bothering to steer, just hungry,

The bread in my pack inedible.

The river deepened into silence.

A kind course, it stayed me from shore

As the banks curved right and left,

Like the creases in my palm.

I remembered there was a dam

Miles downriver, through town,

But I wouldn’t worry about 

What came next until it came.

 

The Curvature: Escape

Here, the river, my river, argues.

It speaks with whispered nouns

That name the parts of the word

I have come here once again to hear.

I say parts since the water cannot adhere,

As if having lost the battle to live.

(The old coliseums were flooded

And filled with elephants and lions

Who couldn’t drown but drowned

Even the gladiators who could swim.)

The waters are silent as ice tonight.

They are coming for me, getting close,

With their pikes and slung machetes,

And I’ve no place to hide — I dive,

Feel my ears fill, my lungs burst,

And, like all escapees, swim upstream.

They stand on the trestle looking down

And do not see a ripple in darkness

I swim deeply enough not to disturb.

When I’m alone again slipping I climb

A clay shoulder at the river bend.

I cannot rest, nor stray from the shore.

I marvel at the constant curvature

Of muddy banks. Nothing is straight.

I stop again and wait, a stone, hearing

Faint assurances I am here, now,

Just this once, and that’s enough for me. 

Green, Terzata #50

This is all I have to say of green —

Not the perfumes or the taste,

Nor all its nuances I have seen.

Green, not red, is the color of haste,

As with all of life,

Little completely faced,

Yet the opposite of strife,

Which is hope (no, not blue),

The blunting of the knife.

Nothing, nothing is quite true.

We act before a green screen.

I speak and act only for you,

My love, scene after scene. 

Note: This is the 50th and last

of the poems I've written in a

form I invented, the Terzata. Below

are numbers 31to 50 in the blog roll.

The first 30 are here: 30 Terzata