Mary - Carelessness

(sister of Martha and Lazarus)

There is a certain art to careless-

ness. I possess

it and it possesses me in the late

afternoon when the sun warms through the kitchen window and the plates

are still dirty in the sink.

I think

it looks better

dirty, and chocolate chip cookies taste better

slightly burnt, still stuck on the pan where

they were several hours ago. The right side of my face is stuck to the table cloth, and I stare

sideways at a pair of salt

and pepper shakers. My silence exalts

these inanimate objects to the status of gods. Nothing else

matters but their form and beauty, suspended in dust particles and sunlight, and the fact that my pulse

beating against the table won’t make

them move, won’t even quake

the scattered granules of salt, small expression

of reciprocal inspiration.

How could I care

less, when I topple these porcelain towers and there,

inside, is nothing at all but salt

and pepper.

Martha - Caring

(sister of Mary and Lazarus)

There is a certain art to caring:
breathing in and out
at a regular pace,
recognizing this perfection
even as you execute it.
You start things in perfection
but never finish them.
You throw them in the trash
or down the garbage disposal;
the ragged metal claws
eradicate
a misplaced stitch,
a misplaced comma,
a misplaced interest
in something more than friendship.
You think
all the time
about the way you look,
the way people look at you,
the fact that this poem
doesn’t rhyme,
isn’t metered,
is flawed.

There is a certain art to caring
and sometimes you get it right:
when an important guest
arrives
and the table
is set, the napkins
are folded, and everything,
everything has been vacuumed
twice over. The rain that was forecast
hasn’t fallen. Your cheese soufflé
hasn’t fallen. The ridges
on the crust of the pie
are so immaculate
they are
inconsequential.
The world is a just and ordered place.

But then your guest tells you to come.
To sit.
Tells you come, why don’t you care?
Why don’t you care,
why don’t you care.
Why don’t you care, guest?
I thought you knew all about me,
all about pie crusts and the art
of creation,
your fingerprints
on my face;
all about
sacrifices
that need to be
made. All about caring.
Don’t fucking tell me I don’t care.
In this
Fuck fuck fucked up
world I care a good deal,
a great deal too much.

I hate
hate it.
Hating myself.
I don’t want a God
who made me this way
I just need to care
less.

Lydia - Lydia

Lydia,
I suspect that you are not real.
Right there along with the scholars and academics;
you are too perfect to be real.
In a world of husbands

and their wives,

children

and their mothers,

how is it that you come to be
yourself? Just yourself.

Because you were the solution to a male problem,
an antidote to nascent feminine spirituality
in a patriarchal society.

Okay. Perhaps not ‘just’.

Nevertheless,
Lydia, dyer of purple,
businesswoman by ancient standards,
whatever your origins, this much is true:
the fact that a male society could create you
gives hope to us all.

Lot's Wife - Lot's Wife

It is midnight and the sharks are circling.
Inside the house you can hear the flicks of fins and tails
that slap against your home, this stationary ark, the shadow
of a stronger covenant. The waters are dark
and changeable. They agitate the reflection of the neon lights
and bonfires that twinkle like stars in the sky beyond which
the distant heavens are burning, boiling for retribution
thousands of galaxies yet minutes away.
And the man you love the most, your captain,
would have your daughter thrown out into
those dark waters.

Run.
Run because it’s sink or swim
in this shark infested ocean of mistakes;
sins, we sometimes call them.
Explosions descend like prehistoric demon-fish,
deep cavern dwellers
streaking the sky with electric pulses.
It is unclear where destruction ends and creation
begins. Where to next? Some other ocean?
An ocean connected to oceans connected to this
churning bay. Or fresh water? But you know
that sharks have been known to swim upstream,
even thrive saltless waters. What would tears
taste like without this essential mineral?
What reefs and endless wonders,
forfeit life?