And there she was, Kathryn Kuhlman* strolling the stage at the Civic,
parting a sea of applause, her gown like an angel that got away,
so pure it might have been empty but for the Holy Ghost preening
in her body as she paced the floral proscenium, lifting her hands
in a sign language I knew only God understood.
My brother dumps raw
sugar into his
mouth from a small
plastic tube he hides
He sought to grow rare orchids up bright air
On theory they were closer to the sun.
Such trailing gardens of the blue compare
To virga with refractions overrun.
He himself is the present he is wrapping
under the starlit branches of the sky.
This, of course, is a truth that needs no trapping:
it is apparent to the naked eye.
The righteous pagans cursed our easy grace.
We shrugged and smiled and knew salvation well.
Looking our wounded savior in the face,
the righteous pagans cursed our easy grace.
He read us stories from a book as blank
as a white sky. (He couldn’t read the sky,
however.) Words marched forward, rank on rank:
he read us stories from a book as blank
To wake up remembering his empty bed
is serene as touching the walls of a cave,
is to believe you can keep that Friday in mind
and heft Galilee on your back.
Walking up to the coffin
(a little larger than a viola case),
I see his jacket lying stiff
as baseball card gum.
At the OTB, men “cross” themselves
as their horses race across TV screens
double-checking their stubs
before dropping them on the floor
The ground is an absolute, the air lets
you down. The way you leave your bronc sustains
a conspiracy of violence you embrace
the way you mean an oath. Forever.