Is in the boring section where The bright kids go Bright and boring is the book They whisper over, holy thing Bright, boring, book bound Just like the angels they read about.
Not that I have a hangup about Angels. If only their books were Dark and dusty, we might know Each other better. But I Bet there are boring dark spots Too. I have to bet because who Would know? The spots are dark Dark as a yawn Dark as the inside of a Closed fist. Dark as a book Bound mind. Dark as a priest’s dark closet
Not that I have hangups about Priests either. Or hangups About what they hang up in Their dark, yawning closets
Skeletons on pink padded Hangers, white ribboned Rose and garlic sachets Tied around their necks?
I wonder whether the casket lid is A death trap like those recalled Drop side cribs that snatched Babies into the jaws of death
But if it is a death trap, it isn’t Inappropriate for this funeral Where my little Christ-love lay Blessed barely an age Before being laid to rest with All this ceremony. All this Ceremony. I’m going to miss this And funeral/baptism cake and potatoes Going off into the worldly world Christ-love less. Loving without Magic underwear and ordinations And special water and oil For anointing and dove Down comforters and man— That casket crib was chock full of stuff I think I can live without. I think I think I can live without.
If your hands are closed or, worse yet, clenched, where does your lover lay the present? I wrote a poem to that effect once and it’s quite profound, especially if your lover is Rumi’s THE Lover and the presents are all the good gifts of god.
I have this sort of boyfriend—this man who loves me unreadably as I have shattered his heart many times. Maybe in this unreasonableness for exactly that reason, he is exactly like god. Jokingly, (sort of), I told him he should buy me a new purse because I was soon to be acquiring a lot more stuff—gifts from actual god. I was (sort of) joking, but he said, enthusiastically, “OK!” And I might accept. I don’t want all the sticky little strings that are attached to love-in-desperation presents, but unlike with god gifts, I can keep my fist clenched for this one.
I can keep my fist clenched. He can go ahead and hang my new Hermes bag on my one outstretched arm.
In an Uber, coming home from an appointment an hour away, stuck in traffic, the driver spent the first half of the ride telling us how important unions are and how he went around stumping for the union all the time when he worked at the Albertson’s warehouse, and then in the second half of the ride, he told us how he wants to get a collage of American gangsters tattooed on his leg (he had tats all over, including his face). He wanted everyone from Al Capone to El Chapo (not an American gangster, but I kept that to myself), to all these relatively current drug lords I’ve never heard of, and then somehow we ended up with him telling me how crack is made (or so he’s heard) and how much Percs and Fentanyl cost on the street (or so he’s heard). When we got to the destination, I told him that that ride was the most fun I’ve ever had in an Uber by far, which is a fact! I told him he was fantastic and gave him a big fat tip. My male friend, more conservative than I, was not thrilled, but I was in Michelle heaven!
I love people so much.
My only regret is that I forget to tell him he needed to add Jimmy Hoffa to his tattoo. Dang it!