easy—
but taking it apart stone
by stone until all
that’s left is the cathedral’s
outline coming in and out of limbo
in the winter sun.
3
All through childhood on eternal sick-day afternoons,
I lived true to my name, piling dominoes
into towers, fingering the white dots like the carpenter Thomas
putting fingertips into the nail-holes of his master’s hands.
A builder and a doubter. Patron saint of all believers
in what’s really there every time you look:
black-scabbed cherry trees unleafed in winter,
the irrigation ditch that overflows at the back
of the house, chainlink of the schoolyard
where frozen footsteps in the snow
criss-cross and doubleback. And now the shroud falls away
and the wound under his nipple seeps fresh blood.
And when Jesus says, Whither I go you know ,
Thomas says, We know not … how can we know the way?
Songs for the Cold War
1/ BOOMERANG
The sidelong whiplash of his arm sent the boomerang
soaring, pushing the sky to the horizon
until the blade just hung there, a black slash on the sun
so far away it seemed not to move at all
before it came whirling back larger and larger:
would it hit him, would he die—and you ducked down,
terrified, clinging to his thigh, its deathspin
slowing as it coptered softly down and he snatched it
from the air. How you loved that rush of fear,
both wanting and not wanting him to feel how hard
you clung, just the same as when he’d float you
weightless across the pond while waves slapped
and shushed and bickered, his breath loud in your ear …
and after he dried you off, he’d lift you onto his shoulders
and help you shove your head through a hole in the sky.
2/ BIKE
The first time I let loose the handlebars
and the bike steered itself, fat tires balancing
on their spinning hubs, the sky came closer
to the ground, the mountain slope receding
at the far end of the street was an exercise
in three-point perspective. One point was the bike
carrrying me along through an infinitely
narrowing alley of shrinking box elder trees,
the second was a bird’s eye foreshortening the slope,
while the third loomed way up high where blinking
satellites passed by, some shadowy sky-presence
that knew depth and height together,
knew my knees pumping the pedals and my hands
down at my sides countering the breeze in the now
now now now of my swaying in the balance.
3/ BOMB SHELTER
There was a Bay, there was a Pig, there was a Missile.
There was a Screen, there was a Beard talking loud talk
in Spanish, there was the Screen in English calling him Dictator.
There was the floor of the room, a checkerboard
of brown and white squares, there were Moves
that were the right ones, and Moves that meant War.
There was a Bomb Shelter rumored to have been built
by a church elder across town. There was Radiation
that let you see the bones of your foot in the shoestore.
There was a Hot War at school where mean kids beat up
Weegee Johnson’s brother, and there was a Cold War
that meant everyone would die. The cat kneaded
your mother’s lap. The dog let loose a growling sigh.
The Pig kept squealing in the Bay, the Missile sweated,
the Screen counted down to zero and turned static.
4/ DUST RAG
What was Jesus writing in the dust? The magic hand
of Jesus writing something down? Maybe what would happen next
to you and her as she sat there beside you on the naugahyde
and cried and Jesus kept on writing until a great stone
rolled down on him from Heaven and crushed him?
The Bible didn’t tell you so but Jesus was the stone, Jesus
was the President riding in the car, Jesus was the holes
in the President’s throat and head, Jesus was the television
floating down from out of Heaven that brought to you
the bullets and the horses dragging the coffin
to be buried in the red letters of Jesus’ words
bleeding on the black and white skull of the President.
She cried on the couch and you sat there watching
Jesus writing in the dust like
but taking it apart stone
by stone until all
that’s left is the cathedral’s
outline coming in and out of limbo
in the winter sun.
3
All through childhood on eternal sick-day afternoons,
I lived true to my name, piling dominoes
into towers, fingering the white dots like the carpenter Thomas
putting fingertips into the nail-holes of his master’s hands.
A builder and a doubter. Patron saint of all believers
in what’s really there every time you look:
black-scabbed cherry trees unleafed in winter,
the irrigation ditch that overflows at the back
of the house, chainlink of the schoolyard
where frozen footsteps in the snow
criss-cross and doubleback. And now the shroud falls away
and the wound under his nipple seeps fresh blood.
And when Jesus says, Whither I go you know ,
Thomas says, We know not … how can we know the way?
Songs for the Cold War
1/ BOOMERANG
The sidelong whiplash of his arm sent the boomerang
soaring, pushing the sky to the horizon
until the blade just hung there, a black slash on the sun
so far away it seemed not to move at all
before it came whirling back larger and larger:
would it hit him, would he die—and you ducked down,
terrified, clinging to his thigh, its deathspin
slowing as it coptered softly down and he snatched it
from the air. How you loved that rush of fear,
both wanting and not wanting him to feel how hard
you clung, just the same as when he’d float you
weightless across the pond while waves slapped
and shushed and bickered, his breath loud in your ear …
and after he dried you off, he’d lift you onto his shoulders
and help you shove your head through a hole in the sky.
2/ BIKE
The first time I let loose the handlebars
and the bike steered itself, fat tires balancing
on their spinning hubs, the sky came closer
to the ground, the mountain slope receding
at the far end of the street was an exercise
in three-point perspective. One point was the bike
carrrying me along through an infinitely
narrowing alley of shrinking box elder trees,
the second was a bird’s eye foreshortening the slope,
while the third loomed way up high where blinking
satellites passed by, some shadowy sky-presence
that knew depth and height together,
knew my knees pumping the pedals and my hands
down at my sides countering the breeze in the now
now now now of my swaying in the balance.
3/ BOMB SHELTER
There was a Bay, there was a Pig, there was a Missile.
There was a Screen, there was a Beard talking loud talk
in Spanish, there was the Screen in English calling him Dictator.
There was the floor of the room, a checkerboard
of brown and white squares, there were Moves
that were the right ones, and Moves that meant War.
There was a Bomb Shelter rumored to have been built
by a church elder across town. There was Radiation
that let you see the bones of your foot in the shoestore.
There was a Hot War at school where mean kids beat up
Weegee Johnson’s brother, and there was a Cold War
that meant everyone would die. The cat kneaded
your mother’s lap. The dog let loose a growling sigh.
The Pig kept squealing in the Bay, the Missile sweated,
the Screen counted down to zero and turned static.
4/ DUST RAG
What was Jesus writing in the dust? The magic hand
of Jesus writing something down? Maybe what would happen next
to you and her as she sat there beside you on the naugahyde
and cried and Jesus kept on writing until a great stone
rolled down on him from Heaven and crushed him?
The Bible didn’t tell you so but Jesus was the stone, Jesus
was the President riding in the car, Jesus was the holes
in the President’s throat and head, Jesus was the television
floating down from out of Heaven that brought to you
the bullets and the horses dragging the coffin
to be buried in the red letters of Jesus’ words
bleeding on the black and white skull of the President.
She cried on the couch and you sat there watching
Jesus writing in the dust like
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