Dissembling Wrong

So close

to a reclusive keeper

of memories, of wrongs

Shuffling among the forgotten objects

Placeholders for the barely living:

anonymous empty

water bottles, hollow and crumpled

Become the jury

Old newspapers still swaddled in

Their plastic rain protectors

Told to be 

Witnesses or spectators

Instructed to rise 

As a one-armed nutcracker assumes the bench

Rag doll court reporter records the proceedings 

Mr. Vinegar prosecutes while

the defense attorney was appointed from among the 

A pantheon of generic

Happy Meal toys.

But the victims are living songbirds

Twittering in the disheveled

cage of my heart of course

Always re-animating  dried bones-

Off-kilter, neglected, wrongs

Will inexorably be

Radically, fundamentally transformed

When the true King

Calls them back

To life

Break-up Songs (for babies)

in the space of no more than

Half-an-hour

someone steals his little shoes

dear to him/dear to us

Still, just shoes.

At the scene of the crime we

Call their names

Thinking whoever did this has to  love them 

Must have loved them

Oh.  This song I know the words by heart

Sang it all those years ago

With all the other sodden

Unbearable

Break up songs for babies.


The Cone of Silence

after almost exactly 30 years 

I return to the original cone of silence

Scooped not by time and chance but the

Actual-true-hand of God

near the plain of Megiddo

where bad, terrible, awful things have, did, and will 

Happen.

You have a tell, my dear

In all your smack talk about leprechauns and canine destinations for women

At 2:30 in the morning

the aircraft flies too loud, too close

to my insomnia 

I remember your anger is your origami armor

against the wounded you-us-story

sewn into the cloak

of every disguise you put on

in vain.

Anger in the roses

your birthday falls

between the Ides of February and

pruning day for roses

when the master gardener

makes them sound so alive, so fragile, so human

the way you once were

Boy without words for the monsters

we all become without the Antidote 

without the blood transfusion 

without the interventionist God

Who somehow, ineluctably abides

this fallen terrible

world where children, babies even

grow up thinking both antichrist and apocalypse are normal

Whole time grown ups

Just shout the most destructive platitudes

into the shotgun corridor of

This unbearable

desolation.

Magi at the park

They emerged from an ordinary 

van

…wore ordinary clothes

shuffled toward me along uneven

lines

squinting, sun-struck

I realized: Magi!

come close enough for

greetings and salutations 

along the usual

Lines of dignitaries and princes-

Hands shaken; eyes met 

they said oh, it is you!

(Me?) their honored guest?

regretting I had no

Gold, frankincense, myrrh to give them

Come so far we all are 

children of the King.

Grace Packer, death by adoption?

When I was a foster parent in Beaver, PA in the late 1990s I was devastated to uncover adoptions going on in contravention of law and decency.

Some of the cases were covered by The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and 48 Hours.  The ACLU sued the county. 

The state did nothing.

One wonders if Grace Parker and her birth family were victims of the same kind of nefarious adoption scheme?

Horrible to think that the serious, maybe illegal actions of child welfare agencies are thoroughly shielded by confidentiality laws.

Even more horrible to think that Sara Packer may have used the federal money given to her to provide for Grace to buy the cat litter they used to disguise her murder.

Weighted Blanket

in a fit of unease 

she has an out-of-body experience 

Rising above the squalor

Imagining what it would be like

To live inside the perfect house

Instead–she dusts the counters and all the edges

with cinnamon to deter the sugar ants

Beats the air with questions

Washes and re-washes clothes, stones, teeth 

Delays bodily functions  

To search for

-The weighted blanket-

Surrogate mother/synthetic comforter

Lyrics/verses 

of a lullaby sung softly by the

Real One