Little Orison

"Solder two wires together, somebody else"



Little Orison

Mary, oh Mary,
They tell me you listen.
They tell me your fabric
Is the same as mine.
And though you are clouded
In gauzy blue linen
I've heard it said
That you answer in time

Mary, oh Mary,
My hems, they are fraying
And oil and mudslides
Are staining my clothes.
Blasphemous mouths,
Nights sweating and praying,
Pastel-colored Mother,
Can you relate to those?

Mary, they tell me you listen.
Mary, they tell me you listen.

Tarnished Silver

Spoons out of raspberry strata,
Puffed with shallow scoops of breath,
Are curved and burnished until
A warped face gleams back.
Now stretched at all of her seams,
With vagrant glances upward
She says, cavalier,
"My violin's been strung so many years
I am just sick of the high notes."
So she replaces her chokecherries
With wandering jews, and lets
Her starthimbles tumble downward.

Penelope, revisited

Both the first and second times I read The Odyssey , I felt a great deal of feminist scorn for Penelope, but later changed my mind.

I want to shake you, to say
What were you thinking?

This man, he came to you reeking of carnage.
He slew the suitors who, believing him dead,
Brought you flowers.

He instructed your son
(Your son.)
To slaughter the maidens,
Some of whom had been raped,
Because they, like any decent girlfriends would have,
Told you to move on.

You waited for him all those years,
And yes, I know about these high-minded
High-fisted
Notions about honor, and the glory of killing the right people.

But did anyone tell you
How long he dallied on Calypso's island?
Did anyone tell you about Circe's bastard child?

Did they tell you how he chose a path
Through the water
That guaranteed the deaths of six of his men?
He never told them.
Just offered up their lives.

Surely, surely you must have known,
Somewhere in your woman's bones
You must have felt this violence in him.

I thought, "Stupid woman."

But then I remembered the myriad things
I was willing to forgive
In exchange for the illusion of closeness.

I excused figurative violence
And literal betrayals,
Saying, "It's just part of the journey."
I was swayed by the solidity
Of a body in front of me,
Wanted it more than I wanted
To admit the truth of what had happened.

How are we different, Penelope, you and I?
Did you call yourself weak,
Lie to your friends about who you were seeing,
And curse your own heart
When he brought his sword into your bedroom?

Penelope, forgive me. We are in the same shoes.