On Tuesday, wheat stalks bowed
in half as if bending to a god;
a god without mercy and a field
of gold at once showed its fear.
It was hot that day
and that's all it was.
On Wednesday, I said there was
no god or gods and that droughts
and rains don't depend on deity,
but on currents
and jet stream.
On Thursday you picked red blossoms
and made a garland for Saint Jackie.
I said there was no "Jackie" saint
and you dropped the "Jackie O."
"Oh," I said and sighed.
Maybe for the Kennedy years
but wedding Aristotle
raised too many brows.
Let's talk philosophy, shall we?
On Friday, the King of David
left us fish. I thought the reference
was biblical.
You said your friend
delivers to Catholics
and he runs a market stall.
Saturday, everything changed.
It didn't stop raining,
the neighbours built an ark.
You called to cancel
our session under the stars.
I would have proven Sagan right
and Einstein a cosmic fraud.
Sunday we rested, according to
the Sabbath. The Adventists say
it's Saturday and we know
they're damn well right.
I cut the grass with scissors.
When no one was looking.
On Monday you met me
at the library. We read the books
of Donne. I spied your lashes
and your eyes, a powder-blue,
lips that curled to stanzas, commas,
thinking you'd found me wrong,
that Jehovah laughed last,
that tomorrow I'd confess belief,
my sins, light a scented candle
to the Christ and whisper prayers
to Jackie O.
You said you simply found him funny,
went to look for Bukowski,
Plath, a Ferlinghetti work
that rhymed.
Mr. Rubik's House of Cards
Andreas Gripp
One of my students
borrowed "La Maison du Plus Pied"
by Jean-Pierre D'Allard,
telling the rise, fall
of the Sainte Bouviers,
ensnared by riches,
hatreds spawned and
business won, lost,
won & lost.
She recounts her favourite scene
towards the end,
where a liberated Marie
slaps the face of her brutal husband, Serge, played by an aging
Stephane DeJohnette.
It's the one-eighty, the turning point
for both characters,
the moment where love drops
its transendence,
its fixed and static state.
I think Anise, my student,
sporting occasional welts
that I ask nothing about,
has found a muse
to lift her trampled spirit
as she says "the film, the film."
Yes it is such.
The couple in the porno ad
are not in love,
and you're likely right
though I said there's
a chance.
There's always a chance,
you replied.
I think about always
and glance at your wisp
of auburn hair,
looking away before you
catch me.
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