Christina Mirabilis

Funerary bells rang in my ears, muffled
At first by the light that surrounded me.
Slowly my eyes began to open
And my nostrils took in the scent of incense
Now only a shadow of what I had seen.

I was suddenly overcome by a stench that clung
To every particle of dust that caught the light
From the stain glass windows and hovered around
Every candle. The scent of rotting flesh
Stewing in sin. I could not stand it—
I rose to the ceiling.

On T.S. Eliot's "Hollow Men"

Space is extended over and around and through
Prickly pears and scarecrows,
And cornfields that grow above our heads
So that we can’t see the horizon.
Only look up and see the sky, always changing,
But always there—
As the shadow is always there.
The shadow: the reality of blind, hollow men.
The nursery rhyme sung by blind children
In a dark room, or a field where the sun
Shines and is not seen, only its heat is
Felt when the shadowy clouds disperse
For one brief but glittering moment.
The blind eyes see or sense the warmth of
The color of light, orange and yellow dancing
With joined hands, singing a nursery rhyme.
The wind shifts, and the sun is covered
By clouds once more.

Decide, decide, deciding.
Desire. Desire, wanting....

Work, wait, waiting.
Wistful, wishful wanting.

On Becoming Human

The mornings here are yellow and a pale, pale blue. The white blueness wakes me long before I have need to rise. Rising rested is a thin, pale, quiet joy in itself.

The yellow is that of a grapefruit halved for breakfast. Somehow the bright tiled sections of citrus stay with the kitchen days after the last one is eaten.

The kitchen is of all the rooms the most habitable in the early hours. The sharp tang of grapefruit and sharp brilliance of yellow turns the ice blue squinting into the solemn surety of a joyous day.

My Sainted Aunt

My ancestor the Austrian was a cobbler
with a shop in the town where he made shoes,
a cottage he returned to each night for dumplings and stew,
and a garden where the children tended the plants and played.
On Sundays and Feast Days, he attended
Mass with his plump wife and innumerable
children who squirmed in their seats, except
the one who would become a saint—she enjoyed the singing—
Lord have mercy upon us,
Christ have mercy upon us,
Lord have mercy upon us.
When she was older she entered a convent,
where she prayed for the ones who had
squirmed during Mass, who now attended with
plump spouses of their own, and innumerable
children who squirmed in their seats, except
the few who would become saints.
They enjoyed the singing.