Poem for Monday, December 10, 2012

A Failed Parable

The final bird took flight out of autumn's
gray beard. It was a gosling without a mind
or a map. It honked like hell when the air
stung it out of youth. Suddenly.

It made a deal with the Lord. Just get me
south, Yahweh, and my first egg is yours.
The wind was incorrigible, sulking in a
corner. God thought of a metaphor about
love and incubation.

It made a deal with the devil. Just get me
south, Satan, and my first egg is yours.
The wind waltzed with finesse towards
Mexico. Satan likes his eggs scrambled
and drowned in Tabasco sauce.

It made a deal with humankind. Get me
south, and my first egg is yours. The
wind folded its hand. A man was sitting
in a church near the gulf, throwing Spanish
Hail Marys. Starving.

The bird landed in the middle of winter.
Right before its heart stopped, it laid the egg
next to a tortilla stand on a quiet street in
Huatabampo. It rolled at a tumbleweed pace
before halting in the muck:


               Man leapt forward with a loaded pistol.
               Satan struck with flames bitingly azul.
               God inundated the town with holy water.


The war was magnificent and worth everything.
Every tear shed in the sun. Every crack in the
desolate clay. Every fleck of blood stained
in the sage. Forever.