The Deposition of Belief

And when she picks up certain books---
the ones that gather sweet-smelling dust
as fragrant as a happy childhood
memory, shelved for Practical's sake---
the words move her again,
they spin her weathervane soul
and she shudders, to no one at all,
"This is true."
And when she goes to church, she still
finds seating in her favorite pew,
and whether it's time to stand or kneel
she strives to feel arisen, lifted high---
"These days, any emotion's worth a try."
Eyes to the arching ceiling, palms upturned,
she reverences every gesture
she has learned.
And when she hears the organ swell
she lends her voice, and tells herself
"Singing is like praying twice."
And her hymns shake that great edifice,
and all the prayers they pile tumble down
in defiance of the omnipresent frown
that once provoked a Shatov's pained reply:
"I want to believe in God
before I die."

 

 

You'll Make a Great Little Poem

You'll make a great little poem,
if you eat all your vegetables--
eat them so your idioms
grow big and strong.
And maybe one day
you'll be clever enough
to rebel against my syntax--
you'll run on, wiggle your
hanging clauses and giggle at me:
"Just try to keep up!"
But until then, little one,
always hold my hand
and look both ways.
And pipe down a bit, please--
Mommy needs quiet so she
can prepare the brilliant
surprise climax
of your next line:

You'll make a great little poem one day,
I think.
But right now I just need you
to hold still long enough
for me to trim those extra syllables,
and make myself a drink.
That's right! I'm your mother,
and whoever said a little vodka
was anything but fine?
It gives your mother a glowing, healthy rhyme!
So Mommy wants a stanza to herself.
What a crime!

And I wonder, is there ever
anywhere worth going,
that I don't turn around
and hail a taxi home in time?

Oh, what are you worried about? Didn't I say
you're gonna make a great poem someday?
I'm sorry you aren't the brainchild of genius--
but you expect me to sit down
and force myself to set aside
all my dreams of being great,
and all the flaws I would deride,
and to think instead on what a splendid
poem you will be.
For once, it would be nice to know
just what you think of me!

Don't cry now--I've stopped my rhyming, see?
The beauty of it is, I can never fool you,
but I must never cease to try.
And even if this is all just a big lie,
and you never find any nice diction to show
you're my baby, in proof or in spite--
you'll still make a great little poem,
if only
Mommy can do something right.

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