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From women let no evidence be accepted, because of the levity and temerity of their sex;
neither let slaves bear witness. Flavius Josephus
Obviously only men fleeing the flow
of blood upon the hill are properly fit
to testify before some Thomas protests No,
not possible that the dead has sprung the pit
of rot. We women beneath the nailed hands
are light of head, fickle of heart, no court
in all the land will trust our word. If banned
by law, who will say yes to our report,
the blaze cremating all our logic. No,
no one builds on shifting sand. You need
a rock, like Peter to whom he says Go!
Get behind me, Satan. Only he will lead.
Christ sends his Magdalene to him who keeps
the keys. Go, tell the news to him who weeps.
THE OX'S BROAD BEHIND
The younger of them said to his father, `Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.' Luke 15:12
I'm nowhere, dying of rectitude.
I plow the same ruts each year
looking at the ox's broad behind.
My bunkered blood is stagnant.
A knife cut me. I'll die
a steer on the farm
in manhood's ruins
Falcon beak, vulture claw
pick at my crotch. No decadence for stadia.
I flute my buffo dreams. Where are
the girls? With mother at synagogue
behind the grill, hearing
precentors chanting Torah
facing Ark toward Jerusalem.
Big brother lectures me once more
how to plow, how not to plow.
It never ends. I'll be buried
before the spigots turned on.
I need the doubtful city,
back alleys, night noises,
unmade beds, the lumpy life
of disordered streets. I want space
to do my lion strut at water
holes in front of all the local prides.
Gangrene is creeping up my legs.
The old man's strong, may live
forever. I'm trapped….I'll ask
him for my portion now.
The younger of them said to his father, `Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.' Luke 15:12
I'm nowhere, dying of rectitude.
I plow the same ruts each year
looking at the ox's broad behind.
My bunkered blood is stagnant.
A knife cut me.I'll die
a steer on the farm
in manhood's ruins.
Falcon beak, vulture claw
pick at my crotch. No decadence for stadia.
I flute my buffo dreams. Where are
the girls? With mother at synagogue
behind the grill, hearing
precentors chanting Torah
facing Ark toward Jerusalem.
Big brother lectures me once more
how to plow, how not to plow.
It never ends. I'll be buried
before the spigots turned on.
I need the doubtful city
back alleys, night noises,
unmade beds, the lumpy life
of disordered streets. I want space
to do my lion strut at water
holes in front of all the local prides.
Gangrene is creeping up my legs.
The old man's strong, may live
forever. I'm trapped….I'll ask
him for my portion now.
So [the younger son] went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. Luke 15:15
I'm strangely sober, my last shekel
gone on tavern girls and booze.
A Gentile in golden tasseled mantle
was looking for a boy to tend his piggery.
Why not? Hunger is lean.
Ask no Torah questions
when the sty is your address.
When the short-legged devils roll
in foulest mud, you forget they're smart.
Sows drop fecal cookies on my feet;
hell's latrine. Stench clings like identity.
No wonder the seven Maccabean
brothers chose death to swallowing
Greek pork. Wise men.
No boss-man lives beside this outhouse;
my castle of despair is down-wind.
Will I starve in swill to my knees while
meat in my father's cupboard goes uneaten?
Why does an empty stomach
teach what Father's dumbest slave
knows after one day in his house?
The wide door stands always open,
the pantry shelves are never empty,
unprocurable wine from Spain in barrels.
The old man's been expecting company.
But while he was still far off, the father saw him, and was filled with compassion;
he ran and put his arms around him. Luke 15:20
Gone these three years
my youngest boy, all hunger on stilts,
varnisher of risk theory, refuses
to straddle, wounded by friendly spears.
Eager for the strange streets.
Did you ever hold a lion
cub by the ear? Tell me.
Pulling weeds, worrying my cabbages,
I stop, turn to grab a hoe;
across the valley I see a speck
far off on the ascending road.
There are specks and specks.
I see them every day.
Don't ask me why I stare.
Leaning on my hoe, I watch the speck
become a blob, the blob become
a man, the man become my son.
I run, trampling cabbages,
down the mountain road,
weeping, shouting idiocies,
laughing, arms gathering in.
I roll the stone from the grave. Losing
is loving with a leaky heart; finding
is the excess of the blood's expanding universe.
Buy Helbon wine. The cost be damned
("You have never given me even a young goat so that I might
celebrate with my friends." Luke 15:29)
So he's back, Stud the Magnificent,
himself, him whom you love.
And you could not wait to be deceived
again. Himself brings only pain.
You know it, expect it, and bow
beneath the blow. You put rings
on his fingers, cloak him in silk,
kill the grain-fed calf so he nights
away the defiances of day,
dances deceit to your music.
This wanton, mindless cradling,
this idiocy of love is tacky.
I who have been faithful,
I who fetch and carry,
I who wait to be chosen,
reschedule my life for you.
No coat of many colors,
no gold for my fingers, no sandals
for my feet, no fatted calf
to bleed for me, no harp
to pluck for joy. This slave
has yet to dance with friends
around a pot of goat stew.
Him have you loved, him.
No, I'll not come in.
His father came out and began to plead with him. Luke 15:28
Look, my older son. Come in.
I've two sons: I need them both.
One son is only half my life.
Without you I limp toward death.
You smell the perfume of pink
curtained brothels, and the reek
of Gentile sties; but my nostrils
are hardened to the whiff of odors over-ripe,
his -- and yours. Nothing new
in stenches' history. To me he smells
of the son who wears my best robe, the one
your mother wove for me
of twisted thread from Tyre.
He smells of her and me.
And he was lost. Yes, you've slaved
for me these many years, as you remind
me now. All you see before you,
pastures, sheep, granaries, are yours.
You're angry – Yes, I always
take him back. You think
I'm weak; he's the proof.
A lion cub snarls when I feed him,
pees only on my best rug,
tears up the Torah text, scratches
scabs on my face for blood; I purr.
You think I give you
pawed-over odds, tender
debris he cast aside.
Twelve years old, moccasined,
blood-ready, I'm off on my solitary
vision quest. While the Day-Wanderer
shines, I hang my meat
from an oak branch beyond
the reach of bears, pour
a tobacco offering on the fire,
blacken my face with charcoal,
fast for half an hour.
Thunderbird, sky noise
with wings, great Earth-maker,
blesses me with wind
touch. It accepts incense
of smoking cedar leaves,
wards off TB, smallpox spirits.
I sit upon the burial mound.
I'll win my deer-tail
and feather, become a man
of tomahawk, squatting around
the fire making war noises,
(a nest of angry hawk-gods),
hunting the white buffalo
of tribal memory, with Ghost
Horse, Dog Chasing,
Fish Wolf, Green Grass Bull,
Sioux braves buried deep
beneath my feet. At night
the warriors had danced, sung
their death song against
the January hunger, chanted
against my Germanic ancestors,
who gave them Jesus,
stole their land.
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