FIFTH POST

KEEPERS OF THE FIRST FIRE

Last night after the thunderstorm struck,

shook the house in its foundation

and winds tore trees from their roots,

I sat alone in the sudden quiet,

like first man huddled

in his here-and-now darkness

with his yearning for comfort                                              

and I knew that time had not erased need,

knew too how we all go on

day-to-day as collectors of comfort,

minders of memory,                                  

and like those keepers of the first fire,                     

living with longing                                                                     

sewn into leathered hearts.

LOVE, ITALIAN STYLE

Sixty-five was in her rear view mirror, but

she was still in possession

of fine olive figure and flame

her stone-cutting, Carrara ancestors

had carved in her 

as she strode into the palace of vanities

to have her hair painted auburn,

nails done the color of blood,

and whisper secrets

she would only tell there.

I tell ya, she said.  He’d be at my place

every damn night if I allowed it. 

I had to tell him,

‘What do you think this is,

Jiffy Lube?’

Okay, so I’m letting him come over later. 

We’ll head to Mimi’s to eat,

rent the new Kevin Spacey movie

from Blockbuster,

and then go home.

Finally, when repairs were finished

she looked in the mirror,

liked what she saw, hiked

her eyebrows twice, smiled to herself,

then said

Who knows,

maybe he’ll get lucky tonight.

 

THE CHILDREN OF SAN MIGUEL

In that moment when the young boy

offered a ride in his wheelbarrow of rust

I stopped, gave him my heart

in a smile

blind classical guitarist

saw gypsy flamenco angels ascend

hands of washerwomen
healed in the town’s baptismal font

the burrito and Coke

became a feast in a wandering desert

and Mexico blossomed blue

for the sun to loosen braided locks of gold

and for me to fall in love again, see

the face of my grandchildren

in every child.

ON AN OCTOBER DAY

TIDYING UP THE SHED

With eyes of fire and jaw set to concrete,

he strode from the woods

onto the beach, white-naked

but for the brown shorts and six-inch

hunting knife, determined

to do the work a man was called to do.

He stepped into the sloshing surf

where the dead loggerhead turtle lay,

with trophy shell

big as his wife’s washbasin. 

He cut and sawed and took one leg,

then another, pulled on the intestines,

long as his wife’s clothesline,

and knelt in the swirled, bloodstained

water and took knife to the bill-faced,

barnacled, black-eyed head

the nagging voice that said

he kept an untidy shed. 

A TASTE OF THE SUN

(from the book with the same title)

She had the adoration of the local men

and the latest issue of Vogue stuffed in her pocket

walking to the city

wanting more than she knew before

and the men

stood on the hill

yearning with intoxication

for the one walking away

and all

had a taste of the sun

seeking relief

from the pain of desire.

MY BROTHER’S CAR

The eleven-year-old, low mileage, garage kept car

I bought from my brother,

meticulous,

maintained on schedule,

oil changed every three thousand miles,

vacuumed weekly,

waxed every fourth Sunday,

hardly taken out in the rain,

never driven to the ocean where salt air lived

now sat in my garage

in fear.