Waiting for the Miracle

For still the saint answers questions.

--Günter Grass

Everyone enters,
waiting for the miracle.
Some bring their own chairs.
When I open the door for them,
they look toward me,
as if I'm the source of wonder.
So I admit to them,
"I'm not the miracle worker.
There are only two things I make:
tea and water."
An old joke,
but one deserving echoes.

I guide them like pebbles
into the room
where the saint is.
I hear their inner laughter,
their coyness,
their vigorous expectation.
Facing a saint is
like facing the sea
for the first time.
There is the same hush,
the same bombardment
of the mystery.

Black Mary Jane is sitting
in a crimson chair.
In the presence of a saint
there is the silence
that one hears.

I too am aware of her significance.
I too laugh inside.
But there are more people coming,
one after another,
and I must open doors.

She lifts her hand
above the newcomers,
who sit under her chin,
then move back
and make room
for others.

"No, I am not
the miracle maker,"
I explain again.
"I make tea
and write down questions
and requests for miracles.
I guide people in.
Those are my duties.
No, I am not the saint."

I get my bearings,
locate the path again,
and push forward.

I remember the first vision
of Mary Jane. Who wouldn't
expect something wonderful?
Black as night and hair
as straight as angels'
(as they used to say).
One eye black as jet,
the other gold as sun.
Conditions for madness
or the fantastic
I chose the latter.

Maybe I was the first to choose,
but I saw the flower
hurtled through space,
a friendship rose,
sitting on the crown
of a wild fig tree.
I gave Mary a bundle
of grapes,
and some oysters to eat,
and a cup of tea
with cinnamon and lemon.
Who knows when one
will find a saint
in the world again?

And when one finds a wonder,
is it wrong to inform others?

But I was not the only one to see.
I remember.
And I am not one
to waste memory,
only chatter.

Others saw.
Richer visions than mine.
And not just simple folk either,
but people from the hill
who cultivate their origins.
They too came to witness.
Miracles:
the blood streaming
from the palms,
or Black Mary Jane,
like Proteus,
changing shape at will.
Her eyes two islands;
her hair seaweed.

Those who live along
the metal edge of society,
tramped in,
waiting for something,
waiting for it
to make itself
as clear as leaves
or trains. They took off
their greasy hats
and waited.

One saw Mary Jane
standing in the air.
Another saw her
turn pretty.
(I always thought
she was pretty.
Anyway, I was in the kitchen.
I can't corroborate.)

Another saw her at night,
eating the moon like a pear.

People these days,
who flow through here,
are as blind as milk.

"I don't believe.
All lies," one fellow says.

"This way, Sir," I reply.
"I don't make the miracles.
I just guide."

She's as visible as rain,
and they're as blind as milk.

"Has she promised to speak today?"

"I don't know."

"What do you know?"

"I only know
the sun in that one eye
grows stronger every day.
And in her lap,
there are reams and reams of questions..."

"And she hasn't answered any.
Ha! I don't believe the stories..."
"Sir, we're supposed to be silent
in her presence...
Would you like some tea?"

He follows me into the kitchen.

"Have you heard her speak?"

"Once."

"What did she say?"

"Thank you."

His face is all screws.

"Have you witnessed any miracles?"

"The first one.
I saw the first one.
I saw the first one."

He laughs and drinks his tea.

"You appear to be related."
He examines...