elysabeth faslund Poems

Now you know, when I were little, I used to hide in the rushes and
Play in that black, thick, bayou mud...
Good for boils and all kinds things.
Them cranes...them white ones, shore was pretty in the
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'Mary, Under Glass' served home-style
by the last, the first, waiter on the aisle
between the trees of Benediction
green. Under rain, under fog,
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...Actually polish with a furniture polish...
Not use it as an air freshener.
...Notice the surrounding wildlife...
Pick any room of your house.
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I falter at the steps before the brass doors.
A crucifix veiled in waxed flames, haloed
By garlanded Marys...
Does it wait beyond the cold, empty aisles?
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I thought it was very cold
That December night...
While driving to my warm
Home.
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Chairs to vacuum
Carpets to dust
Banks to rob...
Uh. No...
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Been through the Southwest desert,
Been through the Texas hills,
Through a snowy Teluride...
One blow-out on it's downside.
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Who are these white-capped jesters...and jackals
Who have placed me in the belly of a
White death-stinking fish?
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Ancient steps, aging breath,
Dark, stained glass
Entwined in bronze...
No shine, spark.
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'Place your hand on the Bible, please....

Do you swear to
Tell the Truth,
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