could’ve been anyone, anything,
but the brother was Philip, and you were close,
and the disease was yellow fever.
What would you do?
Become yourself in time,
president of the Chemical Society,
the Association for the Advancement of Science,
even the Royal Academy—
the circle that, forty years before,
had shunned those desperate studies
closest to your heart, even after you’d given
them thallium, tagged and weighed.
You surely loved your poisons, especially that:
so blue, so soft it leaves its mark on paper,
but a signature so pale you can’t be sure,
always sure, you see it.
And you would invent the radiometer,
the Crookes tube, the spinthariscope,
discover cathode rays, and even be knighted—
but not until you’d spoken with Philip
once, then sought him again through every
channel in England—even Florence Cook—
and discovered that the medium is almost,
but not always, the message.
And you wouldn’t have believed Miss Cook
had the proof not been your own cameras,
your laboratory, your 44 pictures
of pretty Katie King,
the most desirable of spirit guides.
What did Philip think?
You died a knight at 86.
Some brothers live longer than others,
but we all spend good years chasing the dead.
Small College, Small Town
Family genius? Your last term with me, you slumped
in the back row with the damned-if-I-care crowd,
your serious hair a coal black curtain between us.
Has it been a dozen years? I’ve watched you
push your strollers down the cracked off-campus walks,
watched you walk your kids to school, watched them
walk you to school, then run ahead, then go alone.
Now I remember why I remember. It matters to me
when students don’t engage—the classroom’s my stage,
and I want you all to love the show. Your presence
was spotty; your work regular, if not quite good.
But when I click the years it all makes sense:
You were sick. Your last semester was your first
trimester. I’m sorry. You were listening to me
babble through The Scarlet Letter, wondering if
you were going to pitch your breakfast. Then
halfway through exam week, you were married,
the right thing to do in this little town, to a boy
who aced my first-year comp, but never spoke.
I hope he’s treating you better now—he was nice
enough, but strangely quiet even then. It’s odd
you bought that house on the edge of campus.
For years I’ve given you my Winesburg nod
as an old and kindly former prof should, but
you’ve always dodged it, there, behind that veil
of hair. So maybe you’re still trying to find
the back row of town. Or trying to lose your A.
Diet of Worms
Holiness is a discipline. It demands attention.
To begin, play games, but quit before winning.
Touch a soft brown arm, but never, never kiss.
Play heaven’s music, but never end a song.
It’s like any other diet. Protein supplements
will keep you alive, and you will learn, someday,
to feel full. What must be beaten daily is
that misbegotten longing for something sweet.
Sunday Vigil on the Corner
Four years into this war, a handful of us stand,
herringbone-respectable, gray, well-trimmed,
sober as bankers in mackinaws and new boots,
not a shred of tie-dye in sight, our neat signs
square as cartoon trees against the continual
Oregon drizzle. It’s our First-Sunday Ritual.
We try to mingle, abandoned to ourselves in public
discomfort, stranded by hard old belief, right here
at Second and Adams. Our fingers freeze with reason:
“Invest in Peace,” “Children Matter,” “Peace is Patriotic.”
We straighten red silk ties and rub clean chins,
chapped against the wind. The cold keeps soaking in.
Passersby honk Volvos. Some smile, some shake
their heads, puzzled. Some flash our ancient holy sign,
others flick us the finger. We wrap our scarves
tighter.
