A. Podin, Jr.
1
Enshrined in a doorway,
your eyes blue as Ming
chips, you sit cross-legged,
fleshy, round and ringed,
a bulging Buddha
with miraculous paps.
Enameled angels wait
on you, bringing you huge
babies to be nursed, six
at a time, all orphans.
There are so many you can
never satisfy them all.
So, in a slow, deliberate
gesture of beneficence,
you recline on your side,
smile, and grow as many
breasts as your torso can
support, suffer babies
to be brought to you
until you start to tremble,
grace flowing out of you.
2
Our lawn is a green sea
We sail alone, second storey
explorers. Defenseless
in our pullman sloop,
we search for the coves
and inlets, the peninsulas
of our marriage’s continent.
We never heard them come.
We never even saw the skull
and crossbones of their black
flag glowing above their sails.
They swing on the masts
of trees, arms flashing
like sabers, and, soaring
on the red wings of sleeves,
their captain lands in our room.
Swashbuckler, he smiles
a flashing smile, assured
as Douglas Fairbanks. He says:
“You need me.” Your hand
on your hip, you laugh at him
defiantly. Your eyes burn
green; your hair’s flaming red.
You’re as beautiful and brave
as Maureen O’Hara.
He stokes
your hair. His fingers are
at home in that fire. I call
him scoundrel, but he hauls
you to himself like precious
spoil. His mates are laughing,
multicolored in the trees. Grey,
I’m not strong enough to fight
him off and watch the two of you
sail off toward the open sea.
3
Morning sails into our bedroom,
the splintered
ghost of a Venetian ship.
You aren’t here. 1 find
you in the sunlight
of the alcove. Once more,
across the ocean of my
deepest nightmare, you’ve
come back. My Buddha, you
are always here. And
our baby’s at your breast.
A. Podin, Jr., In Advent, E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc., 1972.
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