O Hell, mine eyes converge
with sweet Heaven in a sag
of faith, of surrender.
Who does not live
carnally within
a newfangled homemade book?
Nancy Miller, the teacher, points:
I didn’t know Cathleen
played softball!
I correct her: That’s not Cathleen
but Norma Jean,
who will never die . . . not here!
After Warhol’s art run amok,
without silk screen
who recognizes Marilyn?
What else could I say,
fiery recluse,
of a sister down on her luck?
Assemble ingredients
for a new fascicle
about your triumph after death?
If life itself were not dying,
ice beneath the surprising snow,
I might be here with you,
as Cathleen lay once in this bed
watching Taliban beheading women,
recorded before the twin towers fell.
Where breath comes easy
once sweet love returns,
the elders begin planning a new war.
In hellfire we disappear
like Cartesius,
who said the mind rules the body.
(3-16 February 2014)
copyright 2014 by Floyce Alexander
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