Beyond Request

 

 

                  One of the bed pillows—

                  thin down—

                  propped upright behind her head

                  leans over, soft as

                  snow on snow, and kisses

                  her waist, as she bends forward to lift

                  her novel from the dresser,

 

                  and she thinks

                  in the second

                  her eyes close

                  to rest on her lower spine.

                  It feels anointed

                  by the free gift

                  of that grace.

 

                  But the fingers of both

                  his hands still grip

                  the pages

                  as she straightens up carefully

                 with her book

                 against —oh—

                 the doubled pillow.

 

                 How naked

                 her stiffened back

                 now, in her flannel gown.

 

 

 

 

 

The approach to the menu is covered with a trellis-like structure of black vinyl, over which is stretched a black, gauzy material so that you drive slowly under an extended awning. The menu itself is draped in black bunting, arranged into large drooping bows on each upper corner. You hit the brake and roll down your window. Your empty soul feels like a stomach turned inside out. Subdued sconces light up, framing the choices in wing-shapes, and an unctuous voice intones: WELCOME.  PLEASE MAKE YOUR SELECTION.  You punch in the maximum number. YOU HAVE CHOSEN THREE MINUTES. IF THIS IS CORRECT, PLEASE PRESS 1. He was your neighbor and your best friend, felled so suddenly, slumped over his riding lawnmower. You press 1. The framing shape becomes a harp and again the deep voice resounds: PLEASE MAKE YOUR MUSIC SELECTION AND THEN DRIVE FORWARD SLOWLY. In addition to When the Roll is Called Up Yonder, My Way, Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head, and Pan de Vida, the offerings include “wailing booth,” “sutra chanting,” and I Will Lift Up My Eyes Unto the Mountain (Heb.), which you, forced to choose, choose, though you would prefer silence. But perhaps better to have something even louder to drown out the sound of gears crunching as the curtains part—as if for a puppet theater—and the half-opened rattling casket careens into view on the conveyor, like a car in Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. There’s a high-pitched screak as metal arms extend and tilt the casket toward you, so that you can see the deceased’s gray-green face, pinned to the satin by collar, shirt and jacket, but flopping forward a little. Thirty seconds is enough; you try putting the car in reverse, and pressing ABORT, but the casket will not tilt back onto the conveyer and glide behind the drop of painted clouds. The deceased’s right eyelid has come unglued, and a brown liquid trickles from his mouth. You bury your head in your hands on the steering wheel. Finally, you hear the scraping gears again and look up to see the dusty velveteen curtains swish closed. You pull up to the gate and insert your credit card in the machine. It pops out a logo sticker—a dripping eye on a heart under which appears the message: I have just viewed the body of Ralph E. Jones, deceased August 12. Family and friends will be received until August 17.

 

 

 

 

 

the air quivers again

and swoops, scintillates

glinting like flashes

from a spinning

prayer wheel

 

and the neck stretches up

for the rush in it, the fluster,

the flare—

 

The wandering mind

hangs its hat on the hushed

notes studding

the telephone wires, settled

like folded black umbrellas

 

until one, then two, four,

grapple straight up

an air wall—oh grand plans—

and ripple away—

distances—

 

and the gaze ascends, as if

through the crystalline

spheres, to where

in the high cloudless sky

black specks like bits

of burnt paper—like the remnants

of a life’s complexities swept

from a fire—rise and circle,

calmly weave and float.

 

 

 

 

No twitter in the tree directly outside the window through which I gaze—no bluebird, blackbird, warbler, thrush.

 

I make up an inconclusive crow: clumsy, lumbering, flailing off the ground, too big for its landing gear, landing skittishly, like a small plane, brakes on, ailerons up, up in the air again, down, wheels bouncing.

 

I key in a rambunctious jay: cocky, squawking, in my face, growling, whistling, chattering, pretending to be a hawk.

 

I rattle the keys, dreaming up a fractious cubist bird, beak opened on one plane, scrawny toes curled on another, tail feathers fanned into a third. Eyecorner flicker. Wait. Something has pushed off from a rebounding twig of the Japanese plum, with a knifetoss of glittering wings.


Editor's Note: Without the kindess and patience of Judy Kronenfeld, I would not have survived my undergraduate education, I would not have gone on to WVU to graduate school, and I would not have started Connotation Press. My deepest and most sincere gratitude goes out to Professor Kronenfeld, a brilliant poet and educator. ~Ken Robidoux