The Sacred in the Quotidian

Fall, 2005

Gene Berson

The Law to the Suicide

Sycamores writhing wisely out of the ground their trunks
like vines elbowing the ground
puff, nasturtium leaves quiver
away, drum skins under wind stirred by a flamenco
dancer, her hem tambourines
shimmer her hair
on fire yearns
for pure oxygen (the sleeping pill victim:

below water, tried, tried to burst the wet
magnified sky, bus
turn signal sizzled sizzled
live wire against watery skin now this might hurt
a bit said the
Satyr the
wedding bells floated plum blossoms all bridal
for it was spring & nobody was
telling anything (too busy) all
was song or stuttering into singing the

Silent way 
doves took it when their chick had fallen out
all their work useless, they sat on the wire, small

smooth heads bobbing
there was nothing to do
but sing so

the sleeping pill victim wished to wake up & the wind
very softly gashed the surface with that

wish, granting a dream to her whose brain was
nearly deoxygenated:

There was a man lying in a shallow ditch, on his
& turning him over (the man allowed this
did this even of his own free
will, as a favor

to the more
living, & showed that mold
had grown gray stiff hairs
on his cheeks, his forehead
becoming werewolf: can't you stop it no not once it has
started you can only lie in the grave & disappear into 
the mold, I . . . can't you, can't you . . . no
(he rolled back over)

& the living one, the more living one
awoke, gratefully, with praise on her mind
no matter lost