A. Goes Sailing

1982

DAY 1
You go by noon. The afternoon is slept away.
I break the surface; breathe, flex, dawdle,
unpressured by presence, being seen. The time I waste
I own. I count it, debit petty claims,
make lists.

Alone, I wake at whim rejecting dawns proclaimed by coffee,
crossed words.

Unsustained by armatures of “them” I roam the house, change size,
explore exotic carpet temples, overwhelm the chandeliers.

DAY 20

How strange it is to find my wedding self of proud flesh
but a shell cage,
a sieve.

Grown quiet and quite surprised to find I am
Less comfortable alone.
In the shower I suddenly know how this works
And the exact size of a week.

In sleep my wrapping fingers search, infantile again.
There is no dawn lover.

By midday, between leftover lunch and laundry,
I come to know just how much
I miss you.

Disbeliever

I, the disbeliever,
Taste the beliefs of others
And find none fit to swallow
Yet keep for a hungry time
Bits of theologies,

Make a collaged prayer book, note
Arabian Lawrence on how
The Muslim lives inside his God, an image
Different to Michelangelo’s hovering
Finger-pointing judge.

Recognize that when we cry
Until it seems all minerals
Must be leached away we still are too impure
To shed freshwater tears as angels do.
(Thus Origin would have us know them.)

No. Grief, like a mine in the gut,
Deposits as it recedes acids, rust.
Strips us to our most animal natures.
No saints or angels here!
In a preacher’s words

“God does not answer all prayers ‘Yes.’”

Yet, thinking over what I prayed for
When I was young, undiscerning and passionate
I now suspect
There must be Gods to make reply. Godly they have
Answered in the negative”