Issue 7: December 2006.
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Home > Issue 7: December 2006 > Longer Poetry
night also called my name
by Chris Siteman
1.
Mother conjured us into prophets & saints out of her simmering
Sunday dinner pot, an alchemy of lamb,
breads & wines, garlic, tomatoes, Romano, until the air dizzied,
until the table rose to the ceiling
with grace: Destined by The Lord God Almighty for the greatness
in the blood pounding through your veins, ever lifting us,
or crushing us where we sat, mouths hanging
open with the weight we had to shoulder
after Christ pulled his big finale— How to follow a suicide? To prove
willing to be called? So much stirring under our skin,
and if we failed to believe, there was always the bottle, as if hell
wasn’t enough, the price we set for a lack of faith.
2.
Most mornings I could be counted among the saved, ready
to bare my soul to the parish priest in hopes that somewhere
there lived miracles in daily slices of bread, in saying grace,
in a glass of wine at evening meal, blood red, intoxicating.
I spent years believing in the pious smiles on their faces,
my neighbors who sat in the pews at mass, the incantations,
frankincense & myrrh working upon my mind, preparing
the way for the spirit with the holy word. Though, at times
I felt like Christ finding the temple turned into a market,
and always wanted to tip the altar over, pointing my finger:
Hypocrites! Every one of you, & if I see your blemish, think
of His eyes, think what He sees—
3.
Other mornings, I trace the veins in my wrist
with the point of a utility razor, imagine flesh
opens like an unsealed envelope, a flap.
How easy I should find letting all of this go,
the breathing aching bones of every day
waking to find I’m still here, still on my back
in the early morning gray— The terrible
memory weight rushes in, a troubling sack
of thoughts. I rise to write before dawn diffuses
gravity’s curtain, more my bones these days, a farce
played out between myself & the eye watching
from inside, who takes this so very seriously.
4.
I remember the priest’s eyes glaring, burning for me to believe so he could believe,
stale wafers, Christ’s body sticking to roof & tongue, the wine turned blood,
my altar boy robe covering everything but sneakers, hands & head,
being shown the proper way to carry the icon before the procession,
a brass chain, swinging the censer, tracing the Stations of the Cross in smoke,
the virgin’s powder blue robes, the sadness in her skyward eyes,
a crucifix suspended above the tabernacle, spikes through ankles & wrists,
the gash under His ribs, the image of the Roman Centurion with his spear,
the word love, a pronouncement we all must suffer with Him, through Him,
His thorn crown, the heady thoughts, the urge to cry aloud: Father, save us,
believing there was no way out, that I was bound for hell before I was born,
kneeling & asking forgiveness for being me, for being so weak.
5.
Tell the truth, my best times were stolen Sundays
I lied to my parents & walked the woods to smoke,
listen to crows & November wind in the trees.
Low clouds crawling across the pond’s surface,
sweet decay of leaves, I skipped flat stones
smooth across the sky until each rock
turned ether before reaching the water’s other edge.
I listened to the distance between the world
where I stood & the far off highway
carried to my ear like the voice of mother calling me
home before my eyes could adjust to the darkness
quickening where night also called my name.
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