Cook—
and discovered that the medium is almost,
but not always, the message.
And you wouldn’t have believed Miss Cook
had the proof not been your own cameras,
your laboratory, your 44 pictures
of pretty Katie King,
the most desirable of spirit guides.
What did Philip think?
You died a knight at 86.
Some brothers live longer than others,
but we all spend good years chasing the dead.
Small College, Small Town
Family genius? Your last term with me, you slumped
in the back row with the damned-if-I-care crowd,
your serious hair a coal black curtain between us.
Has it been a dozen years? I’ve watched you
push your strollers down the cracked off-campus walks,
watched you walk your kids to school, watched them
walk you to school, then run ahead, then go alone.
Now I remember why I remember. It matters to me
when students don’t engage—the classroom’s my stage,
and I want you all to love the show. Your presence
was spotty; your work regular, if not quite good.
But when I click the years it all makes sense:
You were sick. Your last semester was your first
trimester. I’m sorry. You were listening to me
babble through The Scarlet Letter, wondering if
you were going to pitch your breakfast. Then
halfway through exam week, you were married,
the right thing to do in this little town, to a boy
who aced my first-year comp, but never spoke.
I hope he’s treating you better now—he was nice
enough, but strangely quiet even then. It’s odd
you bought that house on the edge of campus.
For years I’ve given you my Winesburg nod
as an old and kindly former prof should, but
you’ve always dodged it, there, behind that veil
of hair. So maybe you’re still trying to find
the back row of town. Or trying to lose your A.
Diet of Worms
Holiness is a discipline. It demands attention.
To begin, play games, but quit before winning.
Touch a soft brown arm, but never, never kiss.
Play heaven’s music, but never end a song.
It’s like any other diet. Protein supplements
will keep you alive, and you will learn, someday,
to feel full. What must be beaten daily is
that misbegotten longing for something sweet.
Sunday Vigil on the Corner
Four years into this war, a handful of us stand,
herringbone-respectable, gray, well-trimmed,
sober as bankers in mackinaws and new boots,
not a shred of tie-dye in sight, our neat signs
square as cartoon trees against the continual
Oregon drizzle. It’s our First-Sunday Ritual.
We try to mingle, abandoned to ourselves in public
discomfort, stranded by hard old belief, right here
at Second and Adams. Our fingers freeze with reason:
“Invest in Peace,” “Children Matter,” “Peace is Patriotic.”
We straighten red silk ties and rub clean chins,
chapped against the wind. The cold keeps soaking in.
Passersby honk Volvos. Some smile, some shake
their heads, puzzled. Some flash our ancient holy sign,
others flick us the finger. We wrap our scarves
tighter. At last a rusty beater rumbles by, packed
with acned teens, shouting as we knew they would:
“Go back to Russia, you f*****g hippies.”
And we laugh. Finally someone’s found us out,
stared straight through what time and tweed cannot
disguise. A car on fire with those most likely to die—
few prospects, no money, sure of nothing but
their own anger. We look around our aging crowd,
remembering some of the ways a heart can break.
Lunch with the Lord’s Anarchists
At the Jesus Radicals Conference
They walk through the line in an orderly way,
taking enough, but not too much. No one laughs.
They bring their own plates and cups. No Styrofoam.
Potluck veteran though I am, I can’t make out the food,
but I’m sure it’s deeply committed and fairly traded.
It’s strange to hear such passionate talk in a church.
We move to the lawn of the Mennonites who agreed
to host the gathering. More accustomed to capitalistic
market-driven hygiene, I’m glad we’ve come outside.
Because I ask, some tell me outlines of their journeys,
of where they came from, how they wound up here.
There are many wrinkled ways to get to Portland.
Finished, they slump in quiet piles of natural fiber,
and at last I can read their bodies. Truths dangle
from pierced flesh and cover every inch of visible skin.
Jesus, I am old and academic, and I have much to learn.
I would like to read the rest of them, the rest of their stories.
Ramblin’ Seth Plays the Red & Black Cafe
And when the day of Pentecost was fully come,they were all with one accord in one place. (Acts 2:1)
Maybe they gathered in a room just like this,
a coffee shop somewhere in Jerusalem,
not on the outskirts exactly, but just
on the seedier edge of downtown.
Maybe some sweetly pierced Martha-like
hipster was pulling fresh shots in the back,
and her sister, Our Mary of the Many Tattoos,
was already slipping the day-old scones
to the masses, those unwashed and quizzical
lovers