an actress, doctor, and philanthropist—
the stories of their lives take up a page.
But I recall my neighbour, Betty Amos,
who, with beads wrapped round a gnarled fist,
attempted to cure cancer with Hail Marys,
never letting faith succumb to rage.
There is no mention of her name at all,
no words relating kindnesses and deeds,
how she brought us apples in the fall,
and fed the hungry pigeons pumpkin seeds.
in the corner of my faithless eyesseven magpies have stolen awaythe morning star.Glory, glory! The rising suncrowns the cathedralin this town stopped stillin awe of blazing malachite.Reborn are the winged shadesin the rookeriesto haunt dear heavenwith their pained pterodactyl cries.Reborn are the grey pigeonson the old market squarequarrelling with their enemies,the dirty sparrows.2.Sancho, my old…
of a puddle after rain.And, as if in a dream,you see yourself reflectedin the wavelets, windblowing locks of hairas you reach down, though pinnedyourself against the bottom,which is heaven or hell,depending on your pointof view, or just a well.
then lick it all up from your northern breast?You still wore boots from Bialystokand I would hold your bag in sun and rain.Do you recall your mattress on the floor,how we would suck and f uck and never rest,explore Manhattan, and then talkour way down Clinton street in funny rags?It was four in the afternoon,…
closed since the Germans left the neighbourhood,crumbles in the pouring acid rain.Above, no bells toll for its dead; but stainupon stain marks the stones where Mary’s scarfrests at the bare feet of its heavy rood.
a slice of ham,potato rinds,a glob of jam,beer bottle caps.Inside this drumthere’s other stuff:a blouse that’s torn,a hiker’s thumb,two clips of porn,hardcore and snuff.
delighting far as the eye can see.Yet here below, the same starved kitten,(as I take out a bag of garbage) ,behind a rusty iron gate,waits for its tiny sachet of food.
