A man
upright
before
a finely scratched
red enamel metal door
as of a car. Or van.

Our hero
in this song,
no dogs, no ravening.

Song without anger
but joggers a-plenty
and plenty of wheels.

His mother
comes to visit
every now and then—

who’s telling this story?
“My mother is younger
than I am,” he explains,
“there are so many miracles
in this neighborhood.”

She smiles to hear him say so
and agrees when she comes by,
always some new suitor flustered
by her side, puzzling out
how this man could be this
young girl’s child—
If they behave themselves
they’ll finally find out.
We were puzzled too,
we looked it, so he smiled
and said “My mother
is my other
and from this other
all wisdom flows—
I catch it as I can.”

The main thing is
everybody is alive
at the end of the story—
it has to be that way,
only a story is allowed to end.

2.
The shiny door behind him
reflects the landscape he faces—
fences and fields and trees on a ridge,
what might be a cow way over there
or a boulder left by a glacier,
hard to tell, life
takes odd forms in these places,
these planets.
We could ask him to decide
what that pale lumpy object is
but we have more important
issues to address—
you don’t waste a hero’s
time with ontology.

What is the order of the day
we ask, what’s new, what’s next?
He rolls his eyes,
almost girlish,
and answers what we didn’t ask,
“The clouds bring rain,
but what does the rain bring?”

Don’t know, we say,
we are not skilled
as you in consequences,
what does it bring?

“Brings you you yourselves—
you’re twice alive
when your skin is wet—get
born every day!”

What would we do without such advice?
Dry crackers in dry fingers—
“Quiet your brain
and pray for rain!”

3.
It has to be long,
like a road,
has to be wide
like a door,
has to be deep
as a mirror,
shallow as the sea,
must be you,
like me.

That’s what the leaflet read
we found on the front seat
when he went for a walk in the field,
never out of sight.
We could watch him walking
as if following a pattern
he could read in the grain,
young corn, barely up to this thigh.

We put the leaflet back,
began to wonder whether
we should be here at all,
so many words to listen to,
so many religions
and no horsemen coming over the hill.

Look in the back
one of us said and we did,
empty save for a paper cup
with coffee in it still warm
but no one dared to take a sip
though even we knew
wisdom takes the oddest forms.

4.
He came back soon,
the man,
offered to drive us into town.
But we all came from different places
and didn’t know what town he meant
and didn’t dare ask—
we are not brave,
we people of the word,
we know the awesome power
of what can be said.

So we said we’d make our own way home,
studying the wildlife on the way,
the guerison of local flora,
church bells and factory whistles
will guide us more or less
but thank you for offering
we said. “I hope,” he said,
“you’ll meet my mother on the way.”

7 July 2020