our first child
was good, so good,
resolute and private,
brought us our meals on time,
was able to see through a thrown stone
in mid-arc, and then duck,
without a word of censure
for the thrower,
offering no rebuttal, just
"yes sir, sorry ma’am,"
and then moving on. 
those were the days.
 
and oh,  the second child
certainly knew its place:
behind number one. 
could wait and serve when called upon.
the music was a little
loud at times,
full of beats and hoots,
but mostly it was fun
raising that one,
at least for a while. 

we had to work harder
from the start with
number three,
who was possessed
of the crazy idea
that it was number one.
we had to keep it in line
with stern words,
a lot of slapping,
eventually confining it to a room
which we stripped
of all but the barest rations and
creature comforts.
it settled down,
but not completely.
we blame it for
a lot of what was to come,
but we never admit that —
to them, anyway.

we have to admit
that we never did a great job
of understanding number four
and the spice in its constant whining
in that silly rapid fire voice
about being more than the sum
of its arts.  (sneaky bastard.
did we mention that it,
like two and three, was adopted?
no? we had forgotten, almost.)

we took in number five
because of its inscrutability.
it was full of math, good at
simple tasks and a hell of a cook.
we still get along with them, a little.

there have been others,
now that we think about it —
we’ve never stopped to think
that much about them,
maybe when something of theirs struck our palate,
but oh, we think about them now!

we think it’s number two’s fault
that they’ve all become so strident,
even number one,
pointing fingers back at us when we scold.
we starve most days without them.
their stones make hard trajectories through thick air,
leave blue trails in the ether,
and we can’t see who threw what.
we blame them all.
we are nearly blind now,
confused, delicate,
hungry,
and slipping away.
we blame them all.
 
what’s a child
but an egg to be cracked,
dropped on a skillet, 
brought along to our taste,
then swallowed yolky and hot,
with colors clear and defined?
where did they learn to scramble?
what are we supposed to do with this pile
full of peppers and garlic, hot sauce, who knows what?
how will we know which one’s our favorite
if we can’t tell them apart?

what’s an old couple to do
about getting a bite to eat around here?

there’s a blue pilot light
under the stove
and there’s a manchild staring at it
from his spot on the floor

he thinks his own fire’s more golden
than that sapphire
he wonders which glows
hotter

jealous of the blue light’s utility
he imagines blowing it out
living on cold suppers
starving to keep his own spark alive

(or at least unique) within these walls
not paying the bills until
they come to shut it off
and then he’ll shine

the brighter
for sitting in the dark
cold and hungry
this is what he’s been taught

and this is why he’s lying there
with a growl in his center
another boy
not ready to be a man

staring at a gaslight
pilled out and drunk on his kitchen floor
convinced his own inner light
is all he needs to survive

we move among the cities

there are highways to lead us
cars to sleep in
couches and hostels and coffee shops
and there’s
gotta be some internet around here
somewhere

one of them has to be
a place that isn’t
like any other

ghosting our way
from north to south
east to west and back
spirits walking alone
in dirty backpacks

we used to be
other people
we will be
other people
again

if we can be
elsewhere
soon enough

…starring, stage left,
a bass — telling its stories
through a couple of fingers.
Someone laying pipe
for the flow to follow.
The same someone popping the welds on it
when the flow’s gotta get free.

When Shuggie Otis comes on
with an invite to Sparkle City,
that bass shakes me deep and simple:
a friendly hand opening a door,
shuffling me along to comfort,
giving a shout to someone unseen
to break out sweet tea and a good meal,
makes me agree that
"there is no offer
I would refuse…"

It’s not much —
it’s everything.

So give me
that rock steady bottom
any Sunday, because that’s church
softer than any pew,
keeping me warm on an ember
made of Bible pages.

This morning in particular,
it’s a big pillow
for a sad head
and the groove it cuts
holds me like a mother
I never had.

When they scream,
"Kill him!  Off with his head!"

I am appalled.
I would never scream such things.

I only whisper them to my pillow
(or at most, to trusted friends),

and only about people
who actually deserve it.

Take a moment,
he said, and drink from
this spring —

first you have to pump
the handle a few times
and then it’s going to come out fast

so be ready to put your hand
under the spout and catch a handful
of the water, then

hold it to your mouth
and drink — be careful, it’s going
to be cold, colder than what we get

from the tap, cold as snow almost,
just drink it and it will hurt your teeth
a bit but it’ll be worth it.

It was.  It was, and although
the sweat had run down
from under my headband

since we’d started, I forgot about that
and all the hard, sulky work of mowing
and raking four and one half acres

in no time as I pumped and drank
handful after handful until he stopped me
and said, it’ll be here when you need it,

there’s no reason to overdo it,
it was here before we were, it’ll be here
after us, you can always come back.

I do not know it the pump’s still there
but the spring is still, I trust, because
when he spoke of things like that,

he usually told the truth, I could trust him
when it came to things that weren’t
about what was between us, especially when I was thirsty

or hot or lazy; anytime, really,
I wasn’t able to take care of myself.
It’s good that I have outgrown that.

I say "cathedral"
when I want to speak of
a holy place that is dark
when seen from outside
through a door and instead
turns out to be
full of light.  That’s
what a Catholic boy does
when he looks past his lapse,
back at what he once felt.

If I had been born
elsewhere, as another man,
I might instead speak of
the synagogue of Worms, Germany, called
the Rashi Shul, razed twice
and built back to God each time;
might mention
the Blue Mosque of Istanbul,
repurposed long ago
into mosque from cathedral,
and which still can sharpen
any viewer’s inhale. 

I am not any of the men
who still look to brick and mortar,
stone and glass, as a house of God.
I know there are evils buried in their foundations,
I know how the good words spoken inside them
have some times set in motion the chains, whips,
biases, murders, wars…

I am far down a highway
now, one where asphalt and desert
have opened me to spirit and light
I never dreamed of.  I am no Catholic boy,
no chosen man, no hajji any other hajjii
would recognize…

I know enough, though, to understand
that every highway starts somewhere,
and God at the beginning is God at the end,
and where there is God, even a hidden one,
even one masked by profanity,

there is always a story
worth hearing
of a journey
from someplace to
this place.

I was born
open at the joints, soft all over,
more ready to fold
than to break.

When my bones knit
at last, I was left
with lines
on the inside. 

I try to cross them
as often
as possible,
but sometimes

it’s all I can do
even to see them.
Instead, I feel my way along
the fissures in the dark.

The other day,
I came to one I’d thought
had long ago ossified
but which still gave a little

when poked, gently at first,
then more firmly, with
the now rigid length
of my outstretched index.

I forced it then, a little
at a time, until I could step
over the edges and enter
what lay beneath it.

I am still here.  I am
unable to find a light
anywhere, and I’ve stopped
seeking one. 

Instead, I sit on the floor
of a long hall.  There is an altar
at one end, smoking incense,
the sound of voices I can’t name

yet, though I am struggling
to hear them: hawk cry of a celebrant,
sobs of goosedown, breathy chanting
of others who came here before me.

Is it my imagination
or is there now some shine above me
that makes me think I can see reeds
along a riverbank

outside the margins of the hall?
I promise myself
that later,
when I’ve grown to love the dark,

I will step to that water
and float away, navigating
the hushed canyons of my bones
toward places that were peopled

before they fused, before
I stopped folding and bouncing back
whenever I happened to fall — back before
I was taught

that to be solid and brittle
was my lot, was everyone’s lot;
before I forgot
that there is a kind of starlight

that can guide a person
to cities and rivers
if one is willing to push open
what has not, in fact, hardened.