The Golden Underground

Triptych

44  Triptych I A woman selects the oldest piece of fruit in the produce isle, places it firmly in her basket, moves as if assisted by thunder, as if Gabriel descended. A man chooses a vest because he believes that no one else will desire its crosshatch cotton suppleness, because he will presumably remain alone in this thin place of existence. A child tunes in to a comedy on the life of a struggling artist instead of another show about physicians, feeling that we know enough about the lives of television doctors already. Even in this universe, we know those who endure solitude—those who might not comprehend the necessity of another martyr to sustain some all but lost cause. For all that has passed us by, for every cloud lined with the silk of our dreams, there are others where that lining is made of wire mesh, only the thin places of our desire enduring where all of us are alone together.  45 II Perfect lawns stand like Easter basket grass, plastic perfection, the too green glistening surprisingly not too much to take in. Molecules of lipstick move, as if all on their own, as a woman speaks from behind that veil of red— the universe twinned in two velvet pieces of rope. A cigarette hits wet pavement in the “whep” signifying a much larger butt, the shiny bricks made even more electroplate as November rain pours, the droplets like cold metal falling. All this could belong to no one in particular, martyrs who know little about love, the whole of creation going to waste in paintings and poems as if Saint Brigid does not watch over us. Where would that leave the handmaidens of circumstance, the bridegrooms of desire, the last among us who possibly hear the only call that might matter? 46  III My ghostly apparition in his blue-collar life, working for Chrysler, is married, is not as good a dresser, yet still has kids who admire his gray and blue plaid work shirt. No flowers grow in his garden, only grass bordered by wire mesh knee-high fences, the job taking all of his time, the tub packed with the dirt of that time. Blessings seem hard to come by when we need them most, as blessings resemble the lives of fairies—lithe and ambivalent and as resistant to focus as the gnat flitting before binoculars. My prayers have not been humble, nor have they been anything like blue-collar dreams of getting over amidst the most dire of financial circumstances. There are white horses who could not star in my dreams. There are Cadillacs that are not quite classic enough. And when my woman says “yes,” it would make all of that seem like waste. ...