Shelling Peas

They sat in the breeze of the window unit air conditioning
That made a rattle throughout the house,
And father and son watched television
As they shelled peas on a hot summer day.
Comfortable in their frayed cushioned armchairs in front of a black and white tv.
The routine was efficient:
1.Snap the top off.
2.Pull down like a zipper.
3.Peel open the sides of the pod.
4.Run your thumb along the inside flicking the peas into the bowl.
5.Keep the empty hulls in your hand as you begin again.
6.When you have several empty hulls in hand, throw them in the brown paper bag at your feet.
7.Dump the hulls in the compost pile when the bag is filled.
8.Blanche the peas in boiling water so that they do not grow roots when they are placed in the freezer.

Sometimes they listened to the din of the television.
Sometimes they listened to their own internal din.
They sometimes spoke at each other—
To answer a quiz show question or to comment on a sitcom plot.
Shelling peas was largely a practice in isolation.

As a son, I wish it had been as easy as shelling with us.
I wish I could have, or would have,
Peeled open my pod for you to see.
Even if you had blanched
My ideas in anger.
At least you would have seen them.
But reaching the inside
Involves breaking off the top,
And that can be painful to a boy of ten.
Or thirteen.
Or nineteen.
Or thirty.

And the compost pile,
Although nurturing of so much life,
Seems rancid and dead when you’re so green.

Wash and Wear

It is a mosaic made of linoleum,
This faith of ours,
The gospel made palatable by designer coffee
And songs sung in our range in major keys.
It is a wash and wear creed we chant.

Some feel it’s the way religion should be,
A doctrine of practicality.
The dusty sandals of ancient Jews
Refitted into more stylish shoes.
Prayer’s a fine and fitting place
When a smile is spread across my face.

Church on a billboard,
Salvation on a screen.

Faith of our Fathers, growing dim
All but extinguished…
But very fun.

When the magi came,
Did they sell tickets?

“You gave it all for me, Lord,
To bring me glory.
Help me forever tell the story.”

“When the Son of Man returns,
Will there be any faithful?”

“ ‘Come into my heart, Lord Jesus
Because it’s easier than getting up myself.”

“Suffer the little children...”

“I claim it. "

“I blame it.”

Poetic License

They welcomed me in.
And we sat and sipped tea and coffee
And talked about my poetry,
And how I was educated in English,
But not too educated.
We talked about under-appreciation of the artist
And how modern television saps up too much modern time.
And they said they had read some of my “pieces”
(The one on Plath and the biblical one they loved),
And I felt like the long lost brother that they had found
And had accepted as if he never spent time feeding the pigs.

And then I made a mistake.
Like a belch during an important date with the lover you’ve wanted to impress,
I flatulated that I must be one of the few politically conservative poets in Atlanta
And I was impressed that they would rub elbows
With such a fundamentalist.

The round gay poet smiled nervously,
And the beautiful anti-war lesbian shifted until her back was toward me.
And I felt for not the first time how intolerant the tolerant can be.
And it felt wonderful.

The Apostles

I, at 23, drove, late at night, to help Him, a friend.
I barely knew Him really, a friend of a friend.
My Black Friend.
He needed money, He said, for His brother’s cold medicine.
So I drove downtown at eleven at night with the only money I had in my wallet,
Twelve dollars.
I drove to the middle of the worst part of the projects in Savannah, Georgia,
A place where, I had been told by my family, skinny white boys like me were hated.
With twelve dollars.
I was going to help Him, my black friend, with my twelve dollars.
I was his missionary.

As I drove slowly on his street, looking for Him or His brother,
They surrounded my car,
Seven dark giants of the ghetto, defenders of their properties:
Two on each side, two in front of me, one behind.

I would die here.
And inside They would find no drugs,
No money, nothing of my whiteness but twelve dollars.
And for twelve dollars and a mission I would die.

They roared at me to roll the window down,
And I refused.
“I can hear you fine from here.”
Even my words sounded pasty, pale.
The shouts were louder.
I could hear the kettle being stirred
And the chants beginning.
I silently awaited the attack,
My grip turned white on the black leather wheel.
Was this all my life was to be?
My light was darkness, and oh, how great my darkness was.

Then the water parted.
As suddenly as They had appeared,
They backed away,
Opening like a railway guard,
Willing to let me pass.
To find my friend,
To give Him my money.

I never saw Him after that night.
Was the money used for cold medicine?
Was His brother even sick?
Did He even have a brother?
Were They my enemies?
Were They warning me?
Did They want my money?
Or my white blood?

I will never know the truth about that night.
I will never know the sides or the boundaries.
I will never be able to divide the gray
Into shades of black and white.

A Psalm of a Child of Japheth

I wish I could write without using the word “I,”
But it towers in front of me like the dumpster
That blocks my view of the lake and trees.
So I will make my feeble attempt to climb the sycamore
And look over it,
And sing to You my psalm.

Unto You, oh Lord, will I sing.
Please help me see the unworthiness of me.
I am the wrapper, discarded.
I am the mongrel brought from the pound,
Cleaned and brushed,
Allowed to sleep on the foot of the bed.
I am the son’s murderer embraced by the father
While the weapon is still in my hand.
You are the son, looking up with a tear.

It is difficult at times to talk to One who defines love.
It is painful to stand with hands soiled by my sacrifice of fruits
And the blood of my brother,
And see the pain I have caused.

Unto You, oh Lord, will I sing.
For now.