Poems from
Vigils in the Cave
These poems have been published in the magazines noted and are to appear in the complete volume. Portions of Vigils in the Cave are seperated into chapbook versions. Click on one of the links below to read work from those sections.
Two Ghosts (published in The Distillery)
(for N.W. and H.B.)
Two ghosts were playing dominoes.
One said, "It really hurt, I remember,
but what is pain? It's like I've never
heard the word."
The other laughed, looked up from his hand,
smiled agreement.
He pointed a new finger at the man they both knew
(but where?).
"See him now? He's miserable -- still --
I recognize the face -- he cries at play
sleeps fitfully and hides in television."
The first nodded. "He was at my bedside
before I left, looking at me,
mumbling prayers only God could understand,
unable to tell me what he needed to."
"He told me much," the second said,
"but not. . ." His voice trailed off.
And they both wondered why
the grown child they watched could say "I love you"
but found it hard -- close to impossible --
to talk of heaven.
"Someone ought to tell him," one said.
"He'll find out in time," replied the other.
"Whose turn is it?" the second asked,
fingering one of the dotted squares.
But the other ghost wasn't listening.
Soon the question disappeared, like smoke,
silencing even the clinking of ivory,
as they watched the earthbound boy,
who waited
for his return to ash.
A Poem About Being Fat (published in Our Journey)
If striped shirts and ties and jackets
can't hide this preacher's belly,
then t-shirts will certainly reveal
the sin which causes bulges.
No needs to see me
wolf down eight tacos.
Of course they give the fat teachers classes
on the third floor.
And in this building the elevator
is more dangerous than the heart attack
my climbing could precipitate.
And even though I exercise every day
I can hear my labored breathing
echoing in the stairwells,
and as I anser questions in class.
At my age, one is supposed to have privileges:
you settle down, get a job,
land a wife, make some babies.
Then you get to let yourself go,
throw discipline out the same window
you stare through on cold days
as you look on the fading green
for the lithe child of the past.
