Man of Steel
How can I harden myself against a man
who moves like a clogged culvert, who slides
hard peach memories into paper bags and forgets them
on the sill, who talks in circles and thinks so quiet and so long
that when he emerges from the tunnel of time,
he is once again the dark-haired man
who used to thrash me at ping-pong and always often sometimes
found time to play after dinner?
How will I know when to be patient when I have
always hated September and birthdays, always
been envious of people who can read for hours on a plane,
when I’d much rather be a father than a son, rather be
a parent than a boy who has no choice but to watch his rival grow old.
Shadow & Light
I once worked in an archive,
resleeving negatives and following my nose
to time’s sour victory. Clearly,
The acetate despised fingerprints and loneliness,
like grandparents who taught us how
stories unfold and lure us over the horizon.
The Crab
She is the indignant little girl
in my palm, cranky, crusty, jabbing
her hermit claw in the hope of escape,
such an intimidating attack that my
son—the monster who plopped her onto
this fleshy strand—flinches with a fear that
belies his sandy feet, red cheeks and the
manly smear of zinc on his nose.
In her small shell, in the clench of her body and
her huge understanding that this is
life and death, my friend’s fear is deeper.
Yet this same creature, this armor clad,
calcified, tanklike, terrifying-beast-from-
another-planet, will fight, will retreat, will use
the wisdom of ancient warriors to defeat us
again and again. Thousands of years old,
she is an elegant samurai, a conquistador,
an able assassin, and I know my soft palm
will be no match for her. I will crumble.
I will apologize. I will beg forgiveness and
tenderly return her to the waters of the estuary.
For sixty days I have been on this beach. My neck is
tough brown. My body has grown into to this
tired chair. By now I barely read the magazines
in my lap. I have become a small creature, a part
of the shifting waters, a part of the dry grass,
a part of the sand. The horseflies no longer see
me. I am camouflaged by the sense that I belong,
by the sense that I am the one being held.
Communion
What do Sundays mean to me?
A Jesus cracker, my boys in collared shirts,
reading hymns, filling the quiet
space in our pew.
Today I carry a hungry angel to the rail
where his hands form a cup and his brother
dips his wafer into the blood of the savior.
When it is my turn, I cross my palms to my chest
and receive not my usual blessing
but an accidental cross on my forehead.
The new priest has anointed me with her thumb,
carved a hole so deep I peer down into the grave
of my grandfather and his grandfather and his grandfather,
three short men hunched over coffee, speaking
Yiddish and, quite possibly, hiding from their wives.
I am jealous of their communion, hesitant
to interrupt, afraid to know what they’d think
of me and my grave questions. But then my boys,
how they glow, how they step light,
light streaming, light from perfect bodies,
light as others clasp hands over empty bellies
and slouch toward Golgotha. They follow
my wife, the preacher’s kid, she who floats, too,
who chased me across the cosmos, knowing full well
I would never be a husband to pattern by.