Author: miguel

Her story doesn’t say a word

about a serpent or an apple

or an angel with a flaming sword.

Instead she talks about a blouse,

her one-and-only favorite,

and its field of white polka dots

that danced a polka on the dark blue silk.

The blouse was the only thing she wore

after she had taken off her clothes,

and all of his as well.

“The dots were tiny little flecks,

like snow, and the blouse did not fall

‘like petals from a flower,’

as Adam would like you to believe.

I unbuttoned it deliberately and

slipped it from my shoulders.

“In spite of his bewilderment,

I coaxed his arms into the sleeves

and buttoned it up, up, up,

to the apple in his throat and

watched (in utter satisfaction)

as his human form changed and he grew fur

turned into an irredescent mouse

into a soggy butterfly

emerging from the sheath

of its cocoon and then became

an iridescent mouse with fur

the colors of the rainbow.

“I loved his wings and honey- colored

teeth and the goaty, curly horns

that sprouted from his eyebrows

and the third horn, stiff and straight,

and black as the abyss, that stuck out

of his forehead like an icicle.

“But most of all I loved the moment

he turned into a shadow of his shadow

and both the blouse and he dissolved

and the polka dots bloomed

into a swarm of stars.

“This whirlwind of identities

left him shaken and depressed

and he didn’t speak to me for days.

But as far as I was concerned,

they were my own, own Original

Sin, the diamonds of my greatest joy.

“As for him, he would eventually awaken

from the spell and become a responsible adult, but he has never since put on the blouse that once led him from the temples,

the priests and the punishments into

a life of our Imagination.”

 

© 2014 J.M. Keating

Wings emerged from his spine and I loved his honey-colored teeth

One cold night in February

with snow from last week’s storm

still piled up against the door,

a old friend phoned and asked,

“How are you?”

To our surprise, I said,

”I feel like a wooden chest

made in Prague or Warsaw

too many years ago to mention,

painted yellow, like the sun,

but faded after miles and years

of bruises, dents and scuffs.

“A chest discovered in a thrift store

in West L.A. by two friends,

one brunette, the other blonde,

who took it home and set it in

a sunny corner near the door

so it would be the first thing seen

by all who came to visit.

“On its top, they put a green glass lamp

and three glass bowls, with

slender shoots of young bamboo–

all light, all green, all bright

all Spring.”

© 2004 J.M. Keating

(In memory of Eugenio Montale)

 

It’s raining on the cedars and the Easter eggs and

raining on the dancers and the bishop’s motorcade.

It’s raining on Chet Baker’s flugelhorn and on the fog that coils

around the hearts of lovers

waiting to be asked to dance.

It’s raining in ballrooms in Jerusalem and raining

in the House of Representatives, raining on the pilgrims

wading in the waters that flood the Savior’s tomb, raining

on the hearts of seekers

waiting for the hidden sun.

It’s raining on the lovers on the Vía de Los Sueños,

raining in the Virgin’s womb and on the fog that came to us

in March and never left and raining on the rain that closed the doors

on lonely hearts the day

they said Chet Baker died.

It’s raining on us all as we beg for it to cease and raining

on the faithful waiting for Godot to roll away the stone and lift the fog,

and praying for the Angel to sound the flugelhorn and bring the

sun in hopes that Jesus sees his shadow,

or else it’s going to rain

on all of us forever.

© 2006 J.M. Keating