Poetry

Coincidence

May 09, 2012 by Anya Silver

The same morning I press my shorn chest
flat against an x-ray machine, my sister
pushes from her body a baby girl.
Praise God, whose hand passes over itself
like river currents as it gives and takes,
pulls one film from the whirring machine
while pushing in a new, unprinted slide.
Praise God for this fearful doubling, over
which I will sometimes weep and curse.
Little breathing at the still whole breast
of my sister, little gold seed of death
awakening as the first sun touches its tendrils.

Psalm 46:5, in which they come for the body

May 02, 2012 by Brian Doyle

They are coming for the body; a nurse certifies
That who she was is no longer resident in what
She was, selah. They turn out to be one woman.
Her name is Helene. Selah. She eases what was
A woman onto a gurney. A daughter assists her.
Though the waters roar and be troubled, we will
Not fear, though the mountains vanish in the sea.
Selah. Would you like your mother to be facing
Up or down? Up, please, selah. She zips the bag.
She did believe, yes she did, selah, she received
The glories of the Lord each and every day with
Her eyes which remained hawkish until her final
Breath. Is that so? says Helene, selah. Transplant
Candidates, then, certainly. Sign here . . . and here.
I will drive very carefully, absolutely. His mercy
Upon her soul, selah. She trusted in thee. Refuge
She will discover in thee, and her husband’s arm,
And her mother’s kiss, and all calamities are past,
Selah, and housekeeping will come for the sheets.
God is in the midst of her, and God shall help her.
There is a river; the waters of which have no end;
Amen and then again amen. In the lobby a father
Is reading the sports section while his child gulps
The biggest soda I have ever seen on this blessed
Wild and weary earth; amen and then again amen.

Patrick born too early

Apr 27, 2012 by Brian Doyle

In my first family, the children were referred to not only
By their given names and often their religious names also,
But often by an identifying characterization as well: John
Kevin the Math Genius, for example. Our sister, a nun, is
Betsy God Bless Her, and our youngest brother is Thomas
More Patrick the School Principal; Peter Joseph in Denver
Is in the middle with your humble scribe Brian the Writer.
It doesn’t matter if the child is current or past tense, either;
Our oldest brother is Seamus Who Went On Ahead, whom
None of his brothers or sister has yet met, and there is tiny
Christopher Who Died in His First Hour, whom we expect
To meet also at some undetermined hour. And there is our
Brother Patrick Born Too Early, born just halfway through
His wet voyage, and so he could not breathe, but that child
Would have been a giant, says our mother quietly—he was
Tremendous in size even half born, my blessed boy Patrick.
So it is that sometimes there are five children at dinner and
Sometimes more. I suppose this happens to lots of families.
We don’t talk about it. Time seethes like the sea. But there,
This morning, at the end of the table, is my brother Seamus,
His mouth filled with stars. If I close my eyes I can see him

Man is without excuse

—Romans 1:20

Apr 05, 2012 by Tania Runyan

Perhaps you could say that in Rome, Paul,
where the olive trees of the Seven Hills

strung their pearls of rain against the sky.
And yes, as I hike Glacier Park

with a well-stocked pack, I can welcome
God's ambassadors of fireweed and paintbrush,

the psalmic rhythm of lake hitting shore.
But as the refugee trudges

from Mogadishu to Dabaab, is she to catch
a glimpse of antelope bone in the thicket

and intuit the sufferings of the Son of Man?
She wears her own nails and crown.

An Eden of lizards surges at her heels,
but she wonders at nothing

but the sore-studded daughter she left to die
on the road, and now, the baby

strapped to her back: six pounds
at one year old. He no longer cries

but flutters small breaths on her neck
like the golden wings of moths

she counts with worshipful attention.

A shimmer of something

Mar 26, 2012 by Brian Doyle

Well, the aged mother of the woman who married me died,
And there are so many stories both sad and hilarious to tell,
But let me tell you just one, because it is little and not little.
At her Mass, after the miracle, but before the electric bread
Went into every soul, as people are shuffling slowly toward
The altar, everyone in the line on the left side, as they came
To the front pew, touched my wife. Some bent down to hug
Her. Some touched her hair gently. Some just placed a hand
On her shoulder. One woman reached down and cupped her
Face in her hands for an instant. Sure I wept. We touch each
Other when we have no other way to speak. We speak many
Languages without words. We are so much wilder and wiser
Than we know. There are so very many of us without words,
Speaking the most amazing and eloquent languages; we sing
With our hands. I have seen it happen. You have seen it, too.
It's a little thing, but there's a shimmer of something beyond
Vast. See, I am trying to say an epic thing in this small poem,
And here we are at the end of the poem, where I stop talking.