The Agnostic’s Villanelle


She cannot fathom what God had in mind
or what eternal Truth was brought to bear
when Beethoven went deaf, and Milton blind.

Although she knows God will be disinclined
to answer her subversive little prayer,
she cannot fathom what He had in mind.

How many masterworks were left behind--
unwritten verses, music lost in air--
when Beethoven went deaf, and Milton blind?

Was God afraid of being undermined
by feats as near to the sublime as theirs?
If not, she can’t tell what He had in mind

Unless He was incensed with humankind,
flinging back to Earth his own despair
when Beethoven went deaf, and Milton blind.

How will she bear it, should she find
no other answer but that God could err
Can no one tell her what He had in mind
when Beethoven went deaf, and Milton blind?

-Previously published in PASSAGER, 32 (2000)



A Commencement Villanelle


I’d like to tell him something he should know
on this momentous day— his graduation.
I don't think he’s going to like it, though.

He’ll claim he heard that sermon long ago,
why can’t I rid myself of my fixation,
quit mouthing things I think he ought to know?

He's certain that I'll tell him Take it slow.                
Do all your messing up in moderation.
He’s right.  And he won’t like it much. Although

he'll like it better than the way I'll go
mano a mano, some smooth variation
on all the things he doesn’t know I know--

like where he hides his stash from Mexico
and other shortcuts to intoxication
beneath the basement stairs. He’ll deny it, though.

Still, I’ll avoid that burning down below,
exclude all references to fornication,
even small precautions. (Like he doesn’t know?)

And that’s my make-believe scenario,
my grand conclusion to his education:
I’ll tell him everything he needs to know.
He'll barely listen.  That won't stop me, though.





The Vow


I mustn’t ever have another drink.
I’m stronger than I’ve ever been before,
and this time it’s going to work, I think.

Still, I know you’ll raise a holy stink
if I should come careening through that door
saying I’ll never have another drink.

You’ll tell me I should go and see a shrink
or call the goddamn marriage counselor.
But this time it’s going to work.  I think

the kids will be surprised— they’ll blink
like I was going to fall down on the floor--
but I would not have drunk a single drink;

they’ll see how far I’ve traveled from the brink
of disaster. So don’t worry anymore.
Not this time.  It’s going to work, and I think

you should consider letting me link
up with you again.  Because I swore
last night I’d never have another drink,
and this time it’s going to work. (I think.)





Once and For All


I didn’t really mean to kill your cat.
And yes, I know it sounds suspicious,
but I would never do a thing like that.

Not even this convenient baseball bat
could tempt me to perform an act so vicious— 
Really, I’m not that mean!  Moi?  Kill your cat?

Grab her in mid-pounce, fling her flat
against the wall?  Why, that’s malicious!
You think I’d do a thing like that

on purpose?  In revenge for clawing at 
my parakeet, who must have been delicious?
I’m just not mean enough to kill a cat— 

not even yours (bloodthirsty, way too fat),
who viewed my fluffy birdie as nutritious.
Nope, I’d never do a thing like that.

So please stop yowling that you smell a rat— 
it’s getting just a wee bit repetitious.
I did not mean to kill your frikkin' cat.
Who, me?  No way— Never a thing like that!




​
Subject to Change
A reflection on my students

They are so beautiful, and so very young
they seem almost to glitter with perfection,
these creatures that I briefly move among.

I never get to stay with them for long,
but even so, I view them with affection:
they are so beautiful, and so very young.

Poised or clumsy, placid or high-strung,
they’re expert in the art of introspection,
these creatures that I briefly move among--

And if their words don’t quite trip off the tongue
consistently, with just the right inflection,
they remain beautiful.  And very young.

Still, I have to tell myself it’s wrong
to think of them as anything but fiction,
these creatures that I briefly move among--

Because, like me, they’re traveling headlong
in that familiar, vertical direction
that coarsens beautiful, blackmails young,
and turns to phantoms those I move among.

-first published in POETRY, 180.5 (August 2002)