Poem: Postulant

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