One day she arrived
like a scab dragged across a ballad
of iodine,
a sequin of stars
stitched to a dormant volcano’s lapel,
and as if by sleight of hand
or twist of fate
came to smolder
in my mailbox, that manmade mistress
of the gods
and the Postal Service.
My surprise was pulmonary,
elemental,
like a lava saxophone
breathing fire
and an archipelago
of liquid heat
giving birth to jazz.
What Circe could have saved me
from an epistolary demise?
What mast could bind me?
What beeswax blind me?
None. Envelopes seduce
like pastry-stuffed ovens
suffusing stagnant air
with trinkets of butter and chocolate.
And so I stood by the boiling pot,
by the eager salt,
and read.
And read again.
The chaste mind is naïve.
Jerusalem
is a postcard
of chastened ruins
and toy guns
and faith
in lethal salvation.
But Granada,
O Granada,
your calligraphy
simmers in sunshine
like the fat of
a sacrificial lamb:
No, no poet could appease you.
All those stanzas died in vain,
and now on my kitchen table
I sort bills and coupons
as though good credit
could make up
for a transient love
that left no forwarding address.
Monday, May 14, 2018
