Black, and: Tattletale, and: Third Grade, and: Billet-Doux II

Black

Sludge at the edge of the field, still water, slat fence
and its rickrack shadow. Trowel tongue.
Tulip rooted in black, cricket soaked in it.
Mask of the cedar waxwing. Snipe's eye, fly's face.
A nudge does it, if you're young enough.
My jaw dropped and black leapt in,
black spleen, black brain, black car
pulling out of the driveway, turning at the top of the hill,
then noon, black in its blue suit.

Tattletale

I heard the world turn
its ear toward me
so I said it. My brother
vanished. My mother
frowned, stopped
the faucet, and toweled
her hands, and sweetness
drained from the milk
as it stood in my glass.
The apple on my plate
halved itself
to bare its white heart.
Suddenly, I had nothing
to say, stupid
in my body, hands
in my lap, feet
snug in red sneakers -
dumb proud double knots -
my mind a sky
with a fleck of black in it
flapping in place.

Third Grade

Our hands are folded before us on our desks.
Our hearts are bleached clean by contrition.
Sister Marie is standing in back of us. Her hair is hidden.
Our lunch pails are in the cloakroom. Our coats on hooks.
The alphabet is perfect. It smirks above the blackboard.
God is perfect. Our pictures of Him are tacked to the wall.
Bill is in his body, pale and gangly. Al is in his freckled body.
Delores is in her red-haired body. Phil, Kelly, Nate,
Erin in her thin, tall body. Jim, Sister Marie. My body
is in a white shirt, a little ink-blot on the pocket.
And outside: rain, iron, and silence.

Billet-Doux II

Her favorite saint is Crispin, cobbler's patron,
docile slogger through Gaulish mud -
no foppish apostle for her:

no plump pope or wonder worker,
only a meek believer
in a decent pair of shoes

who slew no king in the name of faith
but left behind a name
that fits exquisitely within the mouth of a king

who wants to rouse his troops to battle -
men whose boots, wrapped in rags and string
so late in a long campaign, could use

some mending. For her, I'd be
their cobbler, even a convert to their cause:
I'd draw the sword and twist it to the hilt

in a stranger's guts. Alas, that battle
is centuries done, and I have trouble
enough keeping my sneakers laced,

my suede shoes safe from the rain,
or I would make her believe
I'd been there, one of those riled and ready men -

because I asked her which saint she favored
and she paused and thought and I watched her
touch a finger to her lip instinctively

then consummate the motion, tucking
a strand of dangling hair
behind her ear, and she said Crispin.