by Charles S. Kraszewski.
A Poem About Not Going to Communion
but sitting in the pew alongside my brother Jesus
watching the communicants return to their places.
courbé sur sa rapière
le con
Look Jesus just look at their faces sun-bright in exaltation,
each one — I know it — assured of his station on the Rosa
Mystica; how they half-close their eyes in blessed delight
like that one — Where is thy sting
o Cancer, now that his heart rings its carillons
of welcome to its Maker; and her — for once, that girl
’s heart no longer’s aswirl with the muddy surge
of misplaced trust and urge indulged
to no good purpose; and all this, thanks
to a little piece of You, my God, stuck fast
to their palate; what delight, my Jesus
what delight they feel
as you dissolve in their saliva
— quite other phlegm, than that in Jerusalem —
on tongues that praise You now and then
misuse Your Name in vain;
in living mouths warm, and dark,
another Incarnation takes place. Good,
Lord Jesus, so it should.
These are my betters.
Corpus Christi custodiat animas eas in vitam aeternam
as it were; from the depths
of my unswept heart arise these words
in a long neglected tongue (speaking of tongues);
est locus unicuique suus
a place for everyone
and everyone in his place
You, with them more intimately than husband
At the moment of carnal ecstasy,
than the child in the birth canal;
You, with them, really,
corporeally, if but for fifteen minutes
before You evaporate through the sacrarium of their soul
directly into the earth, the earth which they make better
and all because of You; and I,
before the emptied grave of the tabernacle.
A place, I say, for everyone,
and everyone in his place.
For what part should God from above have about me?
Doth He not consider my ways
And number all my steps?
I have walked in vanity, and so do I still.
I have denied to the poor what they desired,
just yesterday, for example,
on the corner of Collins and Seventeenth,
placing age and suppleness of sinew
upon the dishes of my discrimination
and finding all wanting, save myself
in the damp counting rooms of my heart;
Easier to Beg, Isn’t It, than to
Stock Shelves in Walgreen’s?
On n’a pas grand-chose à dire pour se justifier,
Surtout quand il fait chaud, qu’un est un type jeune,
Robuste comme tout le monde
C’est-à-dire capable de travailler!
I call Adam Pollo to witness for me,
that I am not unique in my unpretty logic.
I have made the eyes of the widow wait,
and quite a long time at that, and always in vain;
Well, let Him weigh me in His balance, the Just One,
and let Him know my duplicity
—Hold on, Jesus, don’t stop me now.
I confess to You, almighty God,
And to you, my brothers and sisters,
who are my betters —
and before whose laurels I bow my head
in recognition unfeigned;
praise and glory to those, for whom the words
brother and sister
don’t merely rustle once a week like pages of a drily-thumbed missal;
for though I have eaten my morsel alone,
and the fatherless hath not eaten thereof,
still am I able to bless the generosity
of those who drop the odd shekel
into the paws of the gypsy bantlings
tugging the sleeve at the table’s marble edge;
If I made the stranger to stay without,
keeping my door to the traveller closed, by God,
until he got the message at last and pissed off,
still am I able to bless those tile stoves
of good hearts, in which glow still
the embers of the Host;
to which husbands no less put out than I
by the sudden avalanche of mewlers and pukers
pull closer nonetheless the benches to the fire
and say sit down take a load off
warm that chilly skellington of yours
there is no — I admit it — no such excuse
that we have no need of tile stoves in this climate;
You said something once concerning the cup of cool water
and I, I would begrudge the homeless access
to showers by the beach even.
These are my betters.
For I have always feared God
and now we might even speak of terror;
His weight I am not able
I simply am not able, I say, to bear.
What shall I do, when God shall rise to judge?
And when He shall examine, what shall I answer Him?
Well, if I’m to be honest Jesus,
at least this once, at least to You,
before you should abscond yourself anew
behind those jealous doors of beaten gold,
I shall answer You thus,
(in all honesty),
that I have looked upon the sun when it shined,
and the moon going in brightness,
and I have blessed Your name, kissing my hand with my mouth,
blessing you in a voice thinner than a cicada’s,
but nonetheless blessing, with heart in secret rejoicing;
that I have browned the skin you gave me beneath the tropical sun,
washing therefrom, at least for a moment,
sadness and the evil, jealous eye
with turquoise saltwater and the rough grey bark
of the royal palm;
that I have set fresh garments upon my shoulders,
washed and anointed my head;
that I have looked with softness upon
the children who have placed their hands in mine,
and, above all,
that I have rejoiced, nay luxuriated in the embrace
of one, and only one, woman.
Such simple things, my Jesus, as old as this my world,
and thus, with apologies, these archaic vocables.
What are they worth?
What is the halflife of happy memories?
Où sont les neiges d’antan?
I know, I know,
it’s time for you to go.
The priest directs his shuffling loafers
toward the tabernacle,
with the ciborium cradled in his soft, pink palms.
Go, go.
Don’t be sad, Bro.
There’s nothing for it now. I know
that I am one of those
who have filled their bellies with key lime pie and rum;
who, if not at the present moment, nonetheless
have laughed, and that from my very bowels;
I know that I am one of those
who
— still —
have their reward.