Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

The book

Onion skin, they called those thin
pages in our Bibles, translucent
and strong. Finger smudge at the edges,
pages shining over the layers
that wait for understanding. After decades
I taste them new, the onion sliced raw,
tang of earth in my mouth.

*

Book of leaves, a tree in our house.
My father brings it to the table.
Before oatmeal and bread, the words
like seeds drop down into a damp place.
“The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away,”
blessed be the leaves turning in his hand.

*

My children, bathed and fragrant, lean
against my shoulders as I read.
They listen to the Shepherd who calls
to them, who walks the edge of a cliff.
They smell the burning bush, huddle
with me as the glory passes over,
as I cover them with these paper wings.

*

The stories walk out the door with us—
Joseph dreaming, Ruth gleaning,
Jesus in a boat, Jesus wearing thorns.
Sometimes he gazes like a lion,
stares down the marble aisles
of churches through glass angels,
out to the ruins we have made.

*

One red satin ribbon marks the place,
cord of God’s desire for us
sewn to the spine of the text.
No matter where the scarlet falls,
no matter which chapter or verse,
it is relentless in pursuit, the prophets
stumbling behind us, weeping
and singing, the blind man seeing.

*

Veins in the leaves are traceries
of Hebrew and Greek, hidden and sweet,
stories from which we begin again.
I smell roots and eat. “Blessed
are those planted by the river.”
I will sleep in threads of silk,
for I have eaten the Book,
and one day will emerge with wet wings
lifting toward the white lilies.



















Poetry

How it comes this time

Did God create the microbes, too?
On which day did God say,
“Let there be Brie”?

Are these, then, messengers of the Holy One—
Clostridium Gabriel Difficile and
Staphylococcus Michael Aureus?
The seraphim Influenza and Pneumonia?

No drunk driver will take her away.
No warriors wage this assault.
No mugger, no terrorist, no drive-by shooter.
No one to blame. No one.

Unlike the monotonic booping of her monitor
And tweeting IVAC pump,
Her ventilator pipes an almost merry tune
From time to time,
Like close encounters of some kind,
While tiny creatures who, naturally,
Dance in colonies on heads of pins,
Swing, Lo, to carry her home





Film

Wendy and Lucy

Wendy Carroll (Michelle Williams) is a homeless woman driving cross-country with her dog, Lucy, and sleeping in her car at night to save money and stay warm. One morning, her car won’t start. Her funds are limited, and she finds herself at the mercy of the local mechanic (Will Patton). She panics and shoplifts some dog food. She is caught and arrested.
Poetry

Spring 1964

In June the World’s Fair with bright red strawberries
and cream over seared Belgian waffles. It grows hot.
Trapped in the crowd, a tangled skein of nerves,
lost and hungry for quiet, for tenderness, I ride
with my aunt on a long conveyor belt to see the Pietà.
So gentle the grieving, tranquil mother with her downcast
eyes, the stone folds still around her, the cold flesh
of her perfect son. She does not attempt to cry.
My aunt, primed by The Agony and the Ecstasy, leans
to recognize “Buonarroti” on the chiseled band, tasting
the contours of each round unaccustomed syllable.
She whispers the name. She will not last two years.
Silent, thrilled and careful as dancers, when we step off
on solid ground we are joined by our secret, sworn
never to tell what we have no words to say. This is how
it will be in the winter we take our leave: bitter flakes
in a sharp ribbon of wind beyond tears or anger,
the long frozen loop home from the hospital waiting
for me, as we both know. Suddenly shy and tongue-tied
as a girl, she will reach out from her bed to touch me,
recalling too the marble brow, faintly wrinkled,
the white hand, open, as if it were asking a question.