Friday, March 7, 2014

Poem: Postulant


Mariette, dressed in white
slings a castanet across her fingers and
joins the circle
twenty sisters pounding out the
unlikely double handclap of flamenco
a snake in their hands.

Not enough; nothing ever is. The
smoke never so sweet as yuletide fires, the
grass never so spring tart as
schoolday cartwheels, the
kiss never so lost as a
lightning bug’s capture
insect halo in the cage of your fingers.

Pleasures die down from the first
angelfood crayons snap in two
Kodachrome slides fade from too many
trips around the light bulb

And it’s come to God
brass circle token
the underground train to heaven.

Mariette, dressed in white
runs to the garden
strips off her habit
kneels eye level with a bed full of daisies
black faces turned to bottlecaps

Cupping milk white breasts in the
offering plates of her hands
thinking, no one
no one but these and

First published in Ilya’s Honey

From the collection Great Showtunes of the American Stage  

Photo by MJV

No comments: