Report from Sichuan

The pallid hands extend on broken wrists.
A mother cries. A soldier holds his hand
up to the cameras and journalists

are pushed aside. White-knuckled fists
hold bandages and handkerchiefs and sand.
The pallid hands extend on broken wrists

from underground. A bitter rain persists
and feeds the muddy rivulets that panned
up to the cameras and journalists

on Monday afternoon. Official lists
are published but we get it secondhand.
The pallid hands extend on broken wrists

behind a barricade as scientists
record the aftershocks and leave what’s scanned
up to the cameras and journalists.

There are no westerners. No communists.
A man in raingear hollers a command.
The pallid hands extend on broken wrists
up to the cameras and journalists.

Belfast City Reel

Three pints, a calvados, champagne and wine!
That’s counting from the bottom of the deck
And stepping to the reels, sweet Kerry mine.

They’re spilling on the counter in a line
And Allen dear is picking up the cheque—
Three pints, a calvados, champagne and wine!

The whistle, drum and mandolin incline
Marie from Queen’s to Jim from Georgia Tech–
They’re stepping to the reels, sweet Kerry mine.

You catch the barman’s eye and make a sign
(It’s all about the craning of the neck)
“Three pints, a calvados, champagne and wine,

Sir Allen’s tab!” His copper’s got a shine
Like coppers on the bagpipes—Irish craic
And stepping to the reels, sweet Kerry mine.

So set ‘em up again, I think it’s fine—
I’m just across the street, an easy trek.
Three pints, a calvados, champagne and wine,
And stepping to the reels, sweet Kerry mine.

Belfast, Northern Ireland, Feb. 13, 2008

War Games

These thin, gray woods were once a Southeast Asian swamp
Where all the boys on Cutter Drive would re-enact
The news or World War II, the atavistic romp

Of kids with maple sticks and dirt bombs, all the pomp
And circumstance of war. When Cedar Street attacked ,
These thin, gray woods became a Southeast Asian swamp.

It took a half an hour for our troops to stomp
Across the skunkweed, dodging all the dirty flack
They threw in World War II–our fatalistic romp

To claim the hill. We’d charge and dive and belly whomp,
We’d make machine gun sounds, rearming at a stack
Of thin gray wood. We had a Southeast Asian swamp

Behind our houses and you had to play. It’s com-
plicated. Part of growing up a boy. In fact,
The news from Viet Nam, the world’s ballistic romp,

Conscripted us to fight. Contending with the stamp
Of masculinity, my buddies never lacked
For thin grey wood, a sweaty Southeast Asian swamp,
The news from World War II, the cold sadistic romp.

The Passion of the Bleeding Saints

We’ll pass the Padre Pio Cabernet
around this stained glass tank of piercéd sides,
repeating what those tiny voices say

from somewhere in their broken pots of clay,
petitioning the would-be suicides.
Hey, pass that Padre Pio Cabernet!

Impressive, how we put the grape away
and squeeze it through our tourniquets in tides—
Yet frequently we hear the voices say

they don’t believe our drippy passion play.
“Your pantomime,” they say, “of Mr. Hydes
will pass like Padre Pio Cabernet

through Mother Goose!” And just the other day
we heard novitiate cathedral guides
repeating what the tiny voices say:

“The bleeders’ oughta cork the damn Padre
and mop up all their sloppy old peptides.”
We’ll pass… The Padre Pio Cabernet
repeats on tiny voices anyway.

Still Life with Mackerel

Three mackerel look back at me
Forlorn, neglected, oh-so-slightly crazed,
And petrified against all atrophy

In knifed-in oils. If those eyes could see,
They’d see their nemesis. Amazed,
Three mackerel look back at me

The way they always do. “Philosophy
Be damned,” the fishes say, forever glazed
And petrified. “Against all atrophy

You thought to catch us back to life and free
Us to an endless stream of Saturdays.”
Three mackerel look back at me

Like albatrosses. “How’s the family?”
Neglected, I admit. The bastards phrased
That perfectly. Against all atrophy

I’ve scumbled at some artist’s legacy
Of living things, and look at what I’ve raised–
Three mackerel looking back at me,
A palimpsest in crusts, a fucking trophy.