and from the inside in

Traveler
When you visit the dead
do not rely on easy charm
imagine instead
that you have traveled a long white
road
an uncertain coast
whose inhabitants the rocks
and whose soldiers the cactus
in their flat green fatigues
are alert to your presence
your wish to go on living.
All the usual anxieties
are relevant: Have I the right
papers, and where are they placed,
at what moment should I produce
the photo of my father? Is today
back in the world of neighborhoods
Tuesday of which I was unaware;
last evening when we leaned forward
appearing to wish to kiss
did I seem as the light reflected
the sheen of her skin
to hesitate? In which of my pockets
have I carried small tokens
of appreciation, the gifts well-loved
in the land of no more,
the batteries of devotion,
mysterious motors of continuing
affection, bouncing balls
that can never get lost no matter
how unpredictable their exertions.
There are no more disappointments
and yet you find yourself wondering
do medications work here,
is the hospital safe;
are there rules;
is there prayer; should I
look for my father?
Poem
This withered leaf
in a box of figs
resembles the one Adam
wears in paintings. It’s
delicate and curled
imposing modesty. Why
place figs in the garden
to be split
by a bird’s beak
and traveled by ants?
What did Adam think
the first time taking
her breast in his hand:
didn’t he confuse that
tense response
with worship, as later
the people did with gold?
Around them in the outer
world, as when lovers are done
and the day resumes
its machinery
without tedium because
love exists, prey
took prey, and clouds rose
like wreaths around the new
sun,
and a cry rang out. You mean
to tell me they
were not awed by that,
not yet frightened
of everything they had
to lose, as though
beauty were not punishment
enough?
Steven Schreiner
Steven Schreiner
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