To A Friend Who Does Not Believe in God

Neither do I, but yesterday, in the hospital,

for two hours, I held the hand of a dying woman—

my friend’s grandmother, 94, barely intelligible,

and in unrelenting pain. Every few seconds,

she slurred what could only be, Help me.

Help me. Help me. Over and over. Nothing

we did worked: not water, not raising or lowering

the bed, not massage, nothing but canned pineapple,

the little piece we would place in her mouth,

the chewing, something she could do; the juice,

a blessing on her dry tongue. But all too soon

the pain bit back down—the moaning, the grimace,

the Help me. The human remembering the animal.

Suffering and more suffering. Until my friend

placed her phone next to her grandmother’s ear

and played Alan Jackson singing “What a Friend

We Have in Jesus,” when, from the first chord

on the guitar, her body stilled, her face went slack.

For two minutes, she went somewhere else,

somewhere quiet, beautiful, free of pain.

We played it again. And again. And when

she fell asleep, when her breathing deepened,

her mouth and eyes still open; when the Furies

stopped their gorging, we were so grateful,

not to God, but to her faith, to her belief in something

better, something kinder, and with fewer teeth.

 

Jose Alcantara, Rattle #81 Fall 2023 

The "B" List

Boy, I could

Be in trouble.

Before I left

By myself to go grocery shopping, we

Built a list of what we need

But on the way to

Buy it all I

Blundered, lost the list, don’t want to go

Back, admit my error

Besides it would

Be a waste of time.

 

Believe it or not, I remember everything, not a

Billion items and all

Began with a

“B”. First up 

Back—

Bacon enough for four sandwiches. You won’t have more than that, too fat.

Bananas and

Bagels for

Breakfast

Brussel sprouts

Because we 

Both love your special recipe.

Boil them a

Bit. Add chili peppers, soy sauce.

Butters—three

Both almond and dairy, salted and not. Hot

Barbequed chicken

Blue cheese cuz it pleases you

Black Diamond slices for me

Brie for

Both of us. A

Brick of ice cream

Blueberry pie, not sugar or pecan

Because all the sugar reminds me

Brown sugar, and 

Brown eggs from happy chickens

Barn-raised maybe

But also free to range

But

But

But, am I forgetting something. Ah! A

Broom. Not 

Big, small, more a whisk with matching

Black dustpan to sweep up

Bread crumbs and sesame

Bagel seeds from the floor. What’s more

Bags for the vacuum cleaner

But, finally, not on the list

Beautiful cut flowers, something we’ve missed. 

 

Frank Beltrone, rattle.com September 22, 2023

Bathing the New Born

I love with an almost fearful love

to remember the first baths I gave him -

our second child, our first son -

I laid the little torso along

my left forearm, nape of the neck

in the crook of my elbow, hips nearly as

small as a least tern's hips

against my wrist, thigh held loosely

in the loop of thumb and forefinger,

the sign that means exactly right. I'd soap him,

the long, violet, cold feet,

the scrotum wrinkled as a waved whelk shell

so new it was flexible yet, the chest,

the hands, the clavicles, the throat, the gummy

furze of the scalp. When I got him too soapy he'd

slide in my grip like an armful of buttered

noodles, but I'd hold him not too tight,

I felt that I was good for him,

I'd tell him about his wonderful body

and the wonderful soap, and he'd look up at me,

one week old, his eyes still wide

and apprehensive. I love that time

when you croon and croon to them, you can see

the calm slowly entering them, you can

sense it in your clasping hand,

the little spine relaxing against

the muscle of your forearm, you feel the fear

leaving their bodies, he lay in the blue

oval plastic baby tub and

looked at me in wonder and began to

move his silky limbs at will in the water.

 

Sharon Olds, The New Yorker October 15, 1984

Imperatives

Look at the birds
Consider the lilies
Drink ye all of it
Ask
Seek
Knock
Enter by the narrow gate
Do not be anxious
Judge not; do not give dogs what is holy
Go: be it done for you
Do not be afraid
Maiden, arise
Young man, I say, arise
Stretch out your hand
Stand up, be still
Rise, let us be going…
Love
Forgive
Remember me

 

Kathleen Norris, Journey: New and Selected Poems, 1969-1999 (University of Pittsburg Press, 2001) 

No Why

The great blue heron,
beloved in our neighborhood,
symbol of all that is elegant and divine,
mysterious in migration, and in movement
contemplative, patient and wise,
stands regally by the pond
with a frog caught by one leg.
It will not go well for the frog.
Beauty has its price.

Why ask,
why this frog and not another?
(This one, loved of every slimy spot
and raspy evening song,
its placid grin, its humorous fingers, this one,
deeply adored even all the way down.)
Don't ask for why.
God doesn't choose the food for the bird.
But God loves them both,
and all the other frogs, and birds,
and struck onlookers.

Why do two get sick, and one recovers,
and one dies?
Why does the tree fall on one house and not another?
There is no why.
There is only this mystery,
that to predator and prey alike,
to both sufferer and bystander
God gives exactly the same grace.
Even to the perpetrator of the gravest injustice
and also to his victim
God gives equally infinite forgiveness.

Which is more confounding:
the unfairness of life,
or the constancy of God's love?

 

Steve Garnass-Holmes, unfoldinglight.net September 19, 2023

Red Light, Green Light

A children’s game, to be sure, 
played on lawn, sidewalk, 
or ideally in the middle of the street 
when traffic abated. The leader

called out “Green Light,” 
during which a ragged group 
of ten-year-olds scrambled 
to overtake each other, until 
the words “Red Light” forced 
a stop. Those who kept going, 
hurtling on after the dictum, 
were ejected from the game.

We knew exactly when 
to run like hell across 
whatever terrain teased our feet, 
shod in red Keds, ready to go.

And we knew when to stop, 
to wait for the voice of It, 
a god of sorts, to halt us 
in our tracks. We stilled ourselves, 
often balancing on one foot, 
one leg rooted to the ground, 
the other extended in some strange 
ballet, under the wheeling dervishes 
of stars in the invisible twilight 
of summer.

 

Donna Pucciani, The Christian Century September 2023 issue

I Worried

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.

 

Mary Oliver, Swan: Poems and Prose Poems (Beacon Press, 2010)