March 2018
I live with my wife and two step-children in the Boston area where I work as a sign language interpreter and Braille instructor. I think I may be the only person on the face of the planet who reads Braille while driving to work, left hand on the wheel, right hand on the dots, eyes on the road—eyes on the road. I also play a mean blues harmonica. My ninth collection of poetry, Is That What That Is, was published by FutureCycle Press in 2017.
Praying
In the middle of stickball me and Eddy Kaye
noticed it in his driveway. “It’s illegal
to kill them while they’re praying,” Eddy said
as he dangled the stick above its head. A little
water dripped down from the garden hose
that hung in loops beside the driveway, making
a dark, thin stream that ran past the motionless
mantis. “It must be thirsty,” I heard myself saying,
and thought of nudging it toward the water. But Eddy
nudged me first: “No one would know if we did.
Do you think it’d bleed red or green?” In the end
we neither killed it nor helped it to drink. Instead--
a most unlikely act, even a remarkable one--
we did nothing. Nothing at all. We left it alone.
(from Sonnets from South Mountain, 2001)
Hardball
I’ll never forget it: David Greenwald (Greenie)
was on the mound--me, I was playing second--
when after walking the first three batters (beaning
the third), with bases loaded he had a grand
mal seizure--just like that and out of the blue.
No outs and three men on and Greenie throws
a fit. And no one knows what to do.
The infield freezes, watching Greenie growing
red, purple, blue. The boy on second
begins to cry. The coach yells, “Oh my God!”
And all of a sudden everything, everything’s turned
to this--to life and death right there in the mud
of the infield, with that boy on second crying,
and me beside him, holding the ball, praying.
(from Sonnets from South Mountain, 2001)
Open
I’m open to god but I don’t like capitalizing
on god. I mean I’ll open the door
to the Jehovah’s Witnesses, but I won’t
let them dominate the conversation.
“For what profiteth it a man,” I ask them,
“if he gains salvation but loses
the remote?” They smile uncomfortably
as I turn and head into the kitchen,
returning with the longest carving knife
in the drawer. Their eyes get very big
and they start back-pedaling toward the door.
“It’s a double-edged sword,” I tell them,
“this war between the spirit and the flesh.”
Then I prostrate myself in front of
the couch, and cast around underneath it
till the knife touches up against something
I hope is the remote. “The way a life of renunciation
touches up against something one hopes
is the soul,” I say to my well-dressed
guests hurtling down my front steps now
two at a time, not hearing me at all,
though my door remains open, my cheek turned
to the cool hardwood floor, and I’m fishing
around for something lost, contemplating all this dust.
(from A Little In Love A Lot, 2011)
Praying
In the middle of stickball me and Eddy Kaye
noticed it in his driveway. “It’s illegal
to kill them while they’re praying,” Eddy said
as he dangled the stick above its head. A little
water dripped down from the garden hose
that hung in loops beside the driveway, making
a dark, thin stream that ran past the motionless
mantis. “It must be thirsty,” I heard myself saying,
and thought of nudging it toward the water. But Eddy
nudged me first: “No one would know if we did.
Do you think it’d bleed red or green?” In the end
we neither killed it nor helped it to drink. Instead--
a most unlikely act, even a remarkable one--
we did nothing. Nothing at all. We left it alone.
(from Sonnets from South Mountain, 2001)
Hardball
I’ll never forget it: David Greenwald (Greenie)
was on the mound--me, I was playing second--
when after walking the first three batters (beaning
the third), with bases loaded he had a grand
mal seizure--just like that and out of the blue.
No outs and three men on and Greenie throws
a fit. And no one knows what to do.
The infield freezes, watching Greenie growing
red, purple, blue. The boy on second
begins to cry. The coach yells, “Oh my God!”
And all of a sudden everything, everything’s turned
to this--to life and death right there in the mud
of the infield, with that boy on second crying,
and me beside him, holding the ball, praying.
(from Sonnets from South Mountain, 2001)
Open
I’m open to god but I don’t like capitalizing
on god. I mean I’ll open the door
to the Jehovah’s Witnesses, but I won’t
let them dominate the conversation.
“For what profiteth it a man,” I ask them,
“if he gains salvation but loses
the remote?” They smile uncomfortably
as I turn and head into the kitchen,
returning with the longest carving knife
in the drawer. Their eyes get very big
and they start back-pedaling toward the door.
“It’s a double-edged sword,” I tell them,
“this war between the spirit and the flesh.”
Then I prostrate myself in front of
the couch, and cast around underneath it
till the knife touches up against something
I hope is the remote. “The way a life of renunciation
touches up against something one hopes
is the soul,” I say to my well-dressed
guests hurtling down my front steps now
two at a time, not hearing me at all,
though my door remains open, my cheek turned
to the cool hardwood floor, and I’m fishing
around for something lost, contemplating all this dust.
(from A Little In Love A Lot, 2011)
© 2018 Paul Hostovsky
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