Justice

I.

In New Poland,
wayward to the park somewhere
near the river in a Scottish kilt,
red and white:
the snow falling softly
and the earth, a deep russet
under the veil.

One German soldier cursed,
the smoke billowed
from stacks to the sky,
and Noel’s face disappeared
in a line once.
The little girl inside,
lost against the mist.

Kyria in stifled snow,
the black soot mingled
with the tear of heathen sun’s
falling gold;
one Gog and Magog
against the North.

Ruth, like a seamstress,
bought Noel a pair of ribbons
once for the school play,
and the dress,
a pinafore she wore
on a leisurely hot week
in June,
was pleated with indifference.

I took a photograph—in sepia,
and the board was carved in teak,
but she couldn’t remember
when she last played chess.

II.

The piano was too high
to find the notes,
but the sorcerer’s apprentice
played on—
I took her tiny hand.
That night the stars were
like saucy midnight
in the blue-gray world,
a rough weed
on the pond bank,
a small trellis of gold.

Yule logs, river roads,
window wipers made
of black rubber like galoshes
beside the door
of the mud room:
hanging baskets,
potatoes, rice, and lentils.

III.

Noel opened the package,
and the moment lingered,
languished, and
wasted its fingering
on notes already played.
She waited for a kiss,
but the apples just fell
into the courtyard,
and the smiles were kind
and old-fashioned.

One poor woman
had been taken away
once in front of her
for having two folded
handkerchiefs in one pocket.
Her fame spread
to the surrounding villages.
Then Noel was taken.
She had seen an angel
appear under the Star of David.

Under the door,
there was an envelope
with the food
stamps for rations.
A pear, an apple, a sunflower seed,
and the honeysuckle outside
wound its way over
the garden brick wall.
The poppy walk
was gay with bright
and earthbound
green stems,
red and white
tissue petals.

IV.

I was there,
blinking under the enchantment once
that one would never take
more from the bakery
than you could eat in
one handful: sticky
with sugar and dough.
That would be greedy.
But the sky unfurled
acid rain and dry
and burning with
an intense fever.

A chocolate wafer
from the Italians,
the seed-grown nasturtiums
came in four colors,
the eloquent sidewalk
buzzed with roses and daffodils,
and the cakes were piled high
in the bakery.
Like a French wine sitting
on a corner table,
a woman in a dream walked
to the back of the room.

Simply, Mara’s hair was auburn
and her face kind,
and the ebb and flow
of afternoon had caught her
like a glass of Perrier water
with ice, too cold,
but the irises
in the table middle,
the gray striped apron,
and the counter talk were all
as simple as the Queen.

The bowl had water
and a lemon, and she washed her hands
while I drank a ginger beer.
Like ducks swimming
in a pond, round and round,
we tried not to notice the scars
on the brown leather satchel.
Faded perfume was a watermark.

V.

Mara, with the candid smile
worked for the underground,
and when calls came in,
formed the plan of action.
Unlike a wholesome river
she swept along,
drawing a crisis to a crisp
drawing board.

Noel was released
three years later,
the time that passed,
almost an eternity,
and yet unlike only a day
or an hour.

We drove to the park gardens
where the iris day unfolded
as usual,
the pictures came out
clear and true.
The props had all turned
to wind and leaves,
and a faded portrait
strung its diction
beside the weathered houses
alongside the park—
Noel’s soul, a miracle of color,
her aquiline nose like fragile china.

The tree, under a reign
of candor and simplicity,
white in the sun and
the bird-blue, the fawn-gentle brown—
the palette, just a river day
winding sunward
toward illusive lettuces,
soporific, like toes dipped in asphalt.

The hot, hot illusory stage
in full color,
the dance of jazz and blues,
a sober equilibrium.
The toes tapping
on the floor
of the glass-cool club
and three directors
turning the page
beside the grand piano—
it was Noel’s moment
of finesse, the final
curtain call
and hands flung wide,
she danced with
momentum, lacing
her being with a deep
roar of gratitude,
an ocean of promise
to a heaven of acceptance
and fitting applause.

VI.

Bright yellow with seeds,
sunflowers streamline the walk
by the river, flowing
down to the bridge
beside the white house,
where I am leaning and looking
clear to the bottom, azure and silver.

Lake in pools of eyes,
ye have a sonnet per night
under the rocket stars
and olive moon, dusty
with old playing cards and
brave dreams.
Biscuits and wine
and mugs
line the counter,
should we forget
the milk.

O crusty lavender,
in wild profusion beside
the scarlet wild roses
just outside the screen door.
What hand picks you
and sprinkles you like a priest?

High society stands,
established and diametric,
striking as a clock tower,
eating their pottery of beans.

VII.

Ethereal tones
pealed from the stone
monastery,
the bell ringers
from English soil,
transcendent and demure.
It echoed
through the field
and down the valley.

The glass panes
were multicolored,
like cut glass mosaics,
and Latin rumbled
out from the inner circle.

Holy water trickled
in the sanctuary
where women wear dresses
and attend mass at three,
their hair done in buns,
their cars parked outside.
Hikers make it up
the mountain in boots,
anticipating the hill green.
The deer are far away,
like tiny Swiss flowers
in the Olympics.

VIII.

A storehouse of light
holds the morning,
and the chariot of the sun
crosses the sky.
Come into the dawn,
dear one, with clothes like lilacs,
and tears so sweet and dear.

Tiny hands
and a small mouth,
your burnished bronze skin
is as sacred as the hot stones,
and your fountain of innocence
is your love,
spilled on the heads of priests.
We rub our necks
in holy oil and pray.

Our Father in heaven,
hallowed be thy name,
thy kingdom come,
thy will be done
on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day
our daily bread.
Forgive us our debts,
as we also have forgiven our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from the evil one.
For thine is the kingdom,
and the power,
and the glory,
unto all eternity.