Thank you for my tiny life Lord Jesus Christ
My little group of friends, our manageable affairs
Thank you for the courage to face our shared mortalities
Thank you for inside jokes
Thank you for an abundance of personality in a small sample size
Thank you for my blessed life
I’ve opened my eyes to uncertain skies
I know you have as well
And try as we may and try as we must
To hold to each other and the One that we trust
In time my angel the iron will rust
And the vines will creep over the bell
Oh, but the thing that you always did bring
That I came to love about you
You are the harlequin you are the clown
Make portraits of everyone wearing your crown
Fight all your battles with a pillow of down
Dreaming of paradise true
But it is what it is as they say in the biz
And things for a reason come round
The bravest scaredy cat God ever made
Was cornered by time between shadow and shade
So she featured herself star of Macy’s parade
And floated past season and sound
Chorus:
It’s one more day
That begins when I say
There she is, good morning my love
And it really can’t start
My day or my heart
Until I say good morning my love
Tall Tuber eschewed sophistry
As he explained the world to me
God’s figurine I am I am
And thank heavens not a Clam
Sweet Clam replied with hurtful smile
She, as he, employed no guile
The whole tureen– divinity!
When first you take a sup of me
In kiss-me apron, silly vest
God prepares to serve his guests
Clam, meet Tuber, how’d you do
Has everybody tried the stew?
[Editor’s Note: I wrote this in a reflection on the Black Fatigue conversation currently sweeping social media. This incident happened forty years ago and is vivid in my memory. I believe the woman in the fitted blue suit–her name is Dennise, it came to me yesterday morning–would be hurt and distressed at where we’ve landed in race relations in America. She might well have a red hat today]
“Everything you see, everything you encounter is of indefinite complexity”. Jonathan Pageau
And this, out of nowhere came to mind: The intricate weave in the delicate cotton doilies on the arm of Rosa Parks’ sofa
That quick a picture of a woman’s back
trim in a fitted blue suit
standing in front of me as the Canon hums along
tapping a slim foot in modest heels
as hundreds of copies of dozens of pages
collate staple and fall into the tray
a thunking metronome
Her black hair stiff in a 60s that girl bob
her skin the color of the semi bitter chocolate
just then coming into stores
I know her a little, in the cubicle world we share
so when department memos and birthday cards are passed along
in worn brown envelopes secured with a twist and tug of string
you will notice if you look
that her signature never varies and that her wardrobe is faultless
in the way a parochial school uniform may aim for faultless
Oh I wish writing this I could recall her name forty years gone!
I remember her dear friends Meri and Pam–the three of them inseparable
as together they formed Sistahs on the Move
a home grown charity lost in its time
They sponsored bowling tournaments and bake sales
and at the last tourney
a very large, very homely young black woman in a modest dress
this woman born into dire poverty
was sought out, supported, and loved into hope
by these three random sistah hearts
stood at the scoring table and announced
her acceptance into a BA program
with a beaming smile which brought
beauty and grace to her face
which brought tears to the group
which brought looks to the table
I recall all this in an instant in the way memory works
when I said to the back in the fitted blue suit
‘Your home had doilies growing up, didn’t it?”
and she turned to me
with an expression I cannot now help you see and synthesize
but was to me as if I had just discovered
a family password sworn in strictest secrecy by chance
Yes, yes we did, she said, whatever prompted you to ask?!
She lives on inside a clone
of whispers she left on your phone
and though you’ll never be alone
with her she lingers
You play those whispers one by one
the heat the hurt then chekhov’s gun
by the third act you’re among
those thousand fingers
There is no wound for you to heal
no letter waiting for your seal
no lips to kiss no breath to feel
commingling
We leave it to the great unknown
the seer’s tea, the witches bones
smash it on the runic stone
that siren singing
The light is happy where you are
Surrounding as it does
An object of our Lord’s delight
And–most precious–in His sight
The tender flaw
The light is happy where you are
On its face at first blush
It’s just crazy enough
If it were a lark it would fly
To be howling within
Round a ravenous sin
While the face is a whitewashed lie
*
On its face at first blush
You might not feel its touch
At its core it just tastes with your eye
Then it’s more real to you
Than the spike through your shoe
Each betwinkling roll of the die
*
On its face at first blush
The World is concussed
In the dark staggering blind
It followed a scent
Down the alley it went
And met what it had in Mind
