LITMIR.BIZ

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from the birdfeeder.

      When she tiptoes off with half

      the birds’ booty in her belly,

      the sky in me widens like laughter,

      bristles with stars, each an eye

      opening wide as it can, ravenous

      for this world’s bounty.

      The Gulf

      Each night when I was eight

      I lay me down to pray:

      Bless Mom and Dad and Jen and Jill,

      bless Mona and Granddad, bless . . .

      Oh, the list would bore you.

      And each night the arms of my prayer

      reached farther and farther beyond the cave

      of covers, past our house, our city, our country . . .

      Everything, even the stars, needed my blessing.

      My parents were watching the news

      when I called out: In a few minutes

      tell me to stop saying my prayers.

      My fervor frightened them.

      Now there is a term for it:

      obsessive-compulsive disorder.

      But it was order I believed in,

      and I was at its center.

      Then one day without warning

      the fever of my faith broke,

      and I was cured. I was grown

      and had a life like many others:

      husband, job, two children.

      And I knew how not to pray.

      But tonight on the news there is war:

      a broken face I can’t stand to see.

      A POW—a pilot—his shoulders

      folded in like ruined wings.

      There is an enemy. There must be.

      They are his torturers.

      Or they are my leaders.

      Or it is the camera—an eye like God’s

      that sees pain and accepts it

      Of one thing I am certain:

      this man suffers for our sins—

      but which ones: omission or commission?

      Obsession or compulsion? There must be

      some disorder we can name it, and some cure

      for how we lay us down, for how we sleep.

      Antiphon

      On the way to the monastery I get pissed

      at a guy parked too long at the pump

      while I wait to fill my tank. I see him

      inside laughing with his girlfriend

      and the cashier, purchasing lottery tickets,

      which, I guess, is his form of prayer.

      But I don’t care. My motor is running

      and he’s in my way. I have to get prayed

      in by the guest porter by 4:30

      or I’ll miss supper and Vespers.

      I don’t yell or anything, but how

      is he supposed to answer when I criticize

      his lack of courtesy? Fuck you, you bitch,

      he says, grabbing his crotch, to which

      I respond by flipping him the bird

      as I roar off, heart beating like wings,

      pondering the way a simple case of being late

      fueled by impatience can flare into a conflagration.

      And wondering how, in just 45 minutes,

      I can be transfigured, become a woman

      worthy of the Psalms.

      I make it there in time, though my heart

      is still revving in my chest as the cantor leads

      us in chanting one of those psalms asking

      God to smite our wicked foes,

      exulting that God’s victory is ours.

      Ordinarily, I squirm through such words,

      not wanting to add my voice to them,

      but now I sing, Let the mischief of their lips

      overwhelm them! Let burning coals fall on them,

      stifling a giggle in the shame of recognition.

      Who isn’t more at home in this setting

      with the sentiments that follow: Too long

      I have had my dwelling among those

      who hate peace. I am for peace.

      The psalmist’s schizophrenia has always made

      me crazy, until today when I hear the words

      echoing each tone of my soul, see my

      ugliness and beauty mirrored there,

      asking along with everyone around me:

      If you, O Lord, mark iniquities,

      who would be left standing?

      Attempting Meditation

      First, I inhale: May I be . . .

      Then the exhale: one with You.

      I have no idea what this means.

      Thoughts flurry like birds come to feed.

      Seed’s tempting, and I chew.

      Now back to inhale: May I be

      sap pulsing through a sleeping tree

      a toddler’s crayon drew.

      I’m not to imagine what this means.

      Not supposed to think or dream.

      Not supposed to move.

      Just to inhale. May I be

      a fallen leaf riding the stream

      that lulls me toward Your womb.

      Why can’t imagination be the means?

      Metaphor’s the way I breathe,

      how I follow Your tune.

      When I inhale, may I be

      listening for all You mean.

      Vermeer’s Lacemaker

      There never is much light

      in these enclosures.

      Nor do eyes rise

      to spark a reflection.

      The light requires

      an eyelid, cheek, lace

      collar as palette.

      As thread relies on

      the sharp eye, the minuet

      of fingers, pins and bobbins.

      She

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