Absolute Trust in the Goodness of the Earth (4 page)

The New Man

You are the kind
Of man
Who makes
Me think
I want
A husband
Someone
To warm
My feet
At night
& who loves
To give me
Shoulder
Rubs
Someone
Who likes
To kiss
My fingers
And
My neck.

You do not
Say
Appalled:
What! You've made love
To other
Women?
You say
Instead:
All your life
You wanted
Your sisters
Your mother
& women everywhere
To be
Happy.

You do not say:
What is that
Weeping
Stranger
Doing
Sleeping
Late
At your house
Again?

You say:
Do you need
Help
With this one
Too?

Can I go for
Fresh water
How about
Food?

What Will Save Us

The restoration to the cow
Of her dignity.

The restoration to the pig
Of his intelligence.

The restoration to the child
Of her sacredness.

The restoration to the woman
Of her will.

The restoration to the man
Of his tenderness.

My Friend Arrived

For June

My friend arrived
Heartbroken
But wearing
Fresh
Smiles
As she unpacked
Bags
& furniture
Too
From the back
Of a white
Convertible.

Her presence
In our house
Although
On
So distant
A floor
You nor I
Ever
Ventured
Near it
Caused you
To feel
Our house
Was
No longer
Your home.

O husband mine
If you thought
I would forsake
Even one
Friend
For you
No matter
How crazy
You were
Mistaken.

The key to my heart
I give back
To you
The key
To
Your house.

Dead Men Love War

Dead Men Love War

Dead men
Love war
They sit
Astride
The icy bones
Of
Their
Slaughtered horses
Grinning.

They wind
Their
Pacemakers
Especially
Tight
Like Napoleon
Favor
Green velvet
Dressing
Gowns
On the
Battle
Field.

They sit
In board
Rooms
Dreaming of
A profit
That
Outlives
Death.

Dead men
Love war
They like to
Anticipate
Receptions
& balls
To which
They will bring
Their loathsome
Daughters
Desolation & decay
They like
To fantasize
About
The rare vintage
Of blood
To be
Served
How much company
They are going
To have.

Thousands of Feet Below You

Thousands of feet
Below you
There is a small
Boy
Running from
Your bombs.

If he were
To show up
At your mother's
House
On a green
Sea island
Off the coast
Of Georgia

He'd be invited in
For dinner.

Now, driven,
You have shattered
His bones.

He lies steaming
In the desert
In fifty or sixty
Or maybe one hundred
Oily, slimy
Bits.
If you survive
& return
To your island
Home
& your mother's
Gracious
Table
Where the cup
Of lovingkindness
Overflows
The brim
From which
No one
In memory
Was ever
Turned)

Gather yourself.

Set a place
For him.

Living off of Isolated Women

Living off of isolated
Women
Is the easiest
Work
In the world.

Tell them
You climbed
The mountain
Just to see them.
Tell them their wisdom
Means the moon
& the stars
To you.

Tell them
Their money
Buys
Them more
Of this.

They Made Love

They made love
On the altar
Of the church
In which
She received
First Communion.

It was the middle
Of the night
An old
Almost blind
Aunt
Best friend of
Her ancient
Grandmother
Happened
To drive
Past.

The bride in
Process
Her long gown
Crushed into the
Flowers
On which she lay
Rose
To go out
& talk
To her.
While the groom
In regal tux
Washed her hands
In the holy water
Laced with
Champagne.

It is a ceremony, she explained
To the old woman
Who seemed
Relieved
To believe her.

It is
A wedding.

It is an honest
Way
To become
Married
To
The church.

To Be a Woman

To Be a Woman

To be a woman
Does not mean
To wear
A shroud;

The Feminine
Is not
Dead
Nor is she
Sleeping

Angry, yes,
Seething, yes.

Biding her time;

Yes.
Yes.

Thanksgiving

Everything that
Has welcomed
You
Has paid
A price.

You want now
To play
With dolphins.

Your excuse:

They think
They want
To play
With
You.

The Last Time I Left Our House

The last time I left
Our house
You were sitting
On the stoop
Smiling.

Your new girlfriend
Had decked
You out
In brand-new
Khaki shorts
A rosy

Peachy
Shirt
& stout
Intrepid
Sandals.

Your wavy
Hair and
Wavering eyes
Bespoke
A forlorn
Anticipation.

Not for me
For us
Would
You have
Dressed
This way
Or taken
A precious weekend
Off
From work.

I am on my way
Somewhere too
My companion
No lover
An enormous
Milkmaid
Who has promised
To drag
Me
Bleeding
Through the armpits
& groin
Of lower
Europe:
Yugoslavia,
Turkey,
Crete.

The house that
We have
Made
For us
Is perfect.
I turn,
Passing your
Blindly
Smiling
Face
& see its
Grandeur
How it rises
Behind us
Serene &
Granite
Like
A cliff.

In a flash
I see how you
Could duck
The sharklike woman
Zooming
Even now
Toward the entrance
Of
Our street.

How I could
Tell the huge
Milkmaid
I do not care
To see
The sights
That she discerns
My bloody
Internal
Landscape

Is enough.

I picture us
Suddenly
Remembering
Our life
& who indeed
We still are
Waking from
This awful trance
In time
To stop
The inexorable
Flow
Time turned
Suddenly liquid
Though glacial
Slow.

I see you rise
I
Smiling myself
Now
Take your
Hand
As we go
Backward
Through
Those ornate
Massive
Doors
That
Reminded us
Of eternity
And cost
Us so much
To refurbish
To repair.

We back in.

Toward bedroom
Or kitchen

Parlor floor
Or den

Or toward
Those prismed
Bay
Windows
We loved
That almost
Faced
The bay.

Backing in.

With nothing
To say.

I Loved You So Much

I loved you
So much
That when
You left
It took
A lot
To keep me
Alive.

Prayer helped. And giving
Myself over
To emptiness.

Years later
I sit
On this
Beach
Not far
From an old
Hawaiian
Kahuna
Who teaches
All and sundry
How to clean
Their bowels.

Don't
Hold on
To the Old
Stuff, flush it out
She says
Leis to her
Ears
Perched
Like a diva
On her bright yellow
Porch.

I gaze
Thankfully at the sea
Time's most faithful
Clock
Amazed
That every trace
Of that
Old pain
Your leaving
Stuffed me
With
Is washed
Clean.

Winning

The smallest child
Understands:

Anyone who terrorizes us
Is a terrorist;

Anyone who steals from us
Is a thief;

Any one who loves
Has won.

Falling Bodies

On September 11, 2001, several domestic planes were hijacked; the planes were then used as bombs—flown into the World Trade Center in New York City and into the Pentagon, in an attempt to destroy them. The attack on the World Trade Center destroyed the World Trade Towers, two of the tallest buildings in the world. As the towers burned, people were seen leaping from their windows.

Falling Bodies

He told me
Some of them were holding hands
Leaping from
The flaming
Windows.

To these ones
Leaping, holding hands
Holding
Their own
I open
My arms.

Everything
It is
Necessary
To understand
They mastered
In the last
Rich
Moments
That
They owned.

There is no more
To learn
In life
Than this:
How to
Love and
How not to miss
To waste
The moment
Our understanding
Of this
Is clear.

We are
Each other's
Own
Near and far
Far and wide
 (Even if we leap
Into loving
In such haste
It is certain
There will remain
Nothing of us
Left.)

Consider: The pilot
& the
Hijacker
Might
Have been
Holding
Hands.

Those who wish
To make
A war
Of this
Will never believe
It possible.

But how enlightenment
Comes
To others
We may never
Know
Or even
How
Someday
It may come
To us.

And
If it does not come
In this lifetime
We may be hopeful
For the next.

When he tells me
This story
I look
Deep
Into my beloved's
Ear.

It is a finely
Curved
Surprisingly
Small
Fleshy-on-the-
Lower-outside
Miracle.

On the inside
Hairy, growing its own
Wax
It can hear!

A love of bodies
Sweeps
Over me.

And of
Soul.

Why the War You Have in Mind (Yours and Mine) Is Obsolete

The brain
Though encased
In separate
Heads
Is
One brain.

Dropping a bomb
On
One head
Or one million
Is perceived
By all the rest
 (Of brain, if not of heads)
To be a
Threat
Not
Definitely not
So smart
It is
An end.

Projection

To start
You must divulge
Not a secret
But a thing
Not commonly
Known:

That at the back
Of each human's eyeballs
Resides the image
Of a little child.

It is the world
Child
& it sits
There
Gravely, looking
Out
Of
Our
Eyes
Waiting
For us
To
Understand.

So tell him this
First of all.
Then
When he says
Those Indians
Are remote
Savages, who do not deserve
Their own forest
Tell him: All the children of the Earth
Are perfect.

When he says: Those Germans
& their ovens
Tell him: Like clouds, or grains of sand, all the children of
the Earth
Are perfect.

When he says
Those rotten Arabs
& their
Women in
Bedsheets
You tell him: All the children of the Earth
Are perfect.

When he says
Those Chinese
& their
Femicide
You say: Like the feet of Jesus, the eyelashes of
the Buddha, all the children of the Earth
Are perfect.

It is our Life Work
To liberate across the planet
The world child
Who always
Lives
Behind
Our eyeballs
Imprisoned
In the only
Image (our own)
We can
 (Sometimes)
See.

This poem expands to hold almost all countries and
nationalities: When he says
Those Israelis & their
Concentration Camps
Those Americans &
Their Genocide
Those Africans &
Their holocausts
You still say: All the children
Of the Earth
Are
Perfect.

When You Look

You do not want
To believe
Someone
Who tells
You
When you look
At the sky
That you see
A place
With couches
For the weary
& thronelike
Chairs of rest.

Someone, serene, saved
Playing listless harp.

Many of the formerly
Fallen
Well fed
Jolly at last
Driving
White
Cadillacs.

You do not need
To believe
Someone who does not
Want it known
That heaven
Is a matter
Not of inventing
Glory
But of recognizing
It.
That the blue sky with its
Sunsets &
Clouds
Is simply
Beautiful. And that is enough.

You do not need to follow
Someone who
Does not want it known
That we are all
Equal to God
If we keep
Our eyes
 (And our hearts)
Open.

The Tree

The Tree

The tree
Was so large
I could not see
The top of it
So wide I could not see
The ends
Of it.
It was the world
Tree
& it had
Presented itself
To me.

José the shaman
Said:

My people used
To dream
A tree
All of us
Together. We
Dreamed
The same
Tree.
It reached from
Heaven to earth
Earth to heaven
And it sang.
But now
He said
Our people are
Dying
Many are sick
Many are scattered
The rainforest
Is being
Cut down.

The tree does
Not come
To us
It does not
Sing
To us
Anymore.

But it has
Come
Perhaps
To me
I said
& told him
About the tree.

It was so large
I do not know
How
It managed
To get
Inside my dream.
Though it did not
Sing
Except
In
Awesomeness.

Now I understand
& said this
To
José: Though it is the world tree
& larger than the world
It was afraid to sing aloud.
It was looking
For shelter
Even in
My
Small space.

The Climate of the Southern Hemisphere

The climate
My body
Appreciates
Has
Moisture
& has
Sun
My hair
In this climate
Bushes out
My nails
Turn sleek
& smooth
My lips
Never crack
My bones
Never ache.

We are made
For each other
The Southern
Hemisphere's climate
& me.

The joy of sweating
Of eating fruit
Handpicked
From cool &
Patient
Trees
The warmth
Of the earth
—& I know
I do not want
A casket—
That promises
To melt
All of me
Someday
Into
Its verdant
Self.

In this climate
The smell
Of ants
Is the scent
Of rain.

Just so
 (Only here)
Are important messages
Delivered.