Hineni
for Stanley Weinberger
Here I stand, the cantor sobs.
One word touches me, the rest moving air
throbbing over sense, beyond my head,
it falls and rises.
He passes through the people gathered
for this one day. His audience is not there;
today he speaks only to God. At this moment
he stands alone before the flame.
His voice betrays his years, but faith
has perfect pitch, no tremolo
when he stands before God for his people, for us.
No matter what we believe. He believes for us.
After this prayer I will leave, my small
cup of atheistic faith warm for now,
filled by the voice with aspiration,
filled by the voice almost to belief.
He leads us beyond ourselves, tempting us
to atonement and righteousness,
sings to God for us and prays
for the small miracle of faith.
(originally published in The Review Mirror)
********
The Office of Breakfast
It’s Saturday, my day for flour, a splash
of oil, vanilla, all in order, honey, one homegrown
egg, and milk until it looks right. I stir with a fork–
always a fork–and make tea while the skillet heats.
Baking powder and sometimes fruit come last.
Not too much milk, not too much
heat. Not too long in the skillet.
I pour batter, sip the tea, wait and flip,
wait and lift, into the oven and pour
another. I’ve learned control.
My daughter, under firm instruction,
slouches up the stairs to rouse her mother
with filial promises of tea and breakfast
I greet the family with jam and syrup.
This day begins in peace with everyone at table
sharing the grace of griddle cakes.
(originally published in The Review Mirror, my collection, September 2013)
*****
Still Life
One broken flower pot,
Broken neatly, two clean pieces laid together.
It might have fallen apart just now, spontaneously,
Except things do not fall apart like that.
Not even things as fragile as a terra cotta pot.
One torn, discarded pair of leather work gloves.
The hands that once needed their protection
Need it no longer, or the gloves no longer serve.
One concrete planter.
The geranium is red–no, not red but fuchsia–
The pansies two shades, dark and light,
Of a purple that edges toward blue.
I learned to see colors from Kate.
She could see a color
Match it from memory.
This was important to her.
One large crack in the stone slab
on which everything else rested.
(originally published in Mphasis, Sept. 2002)
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Until 2003, David M. Harris had never lived more than fifty miles from New York City. Since then he has moved to Tennessee, married, acquired a daughter and a classic MG, and gotten serious about poetry. All these projects seem to be working out pretty well. His work has appeared in Pirene’s Fountain (and in the Best of Pirene’s Fountain anthology), Gargoyle, The Labletter, The Pedestal, and other places. His first collection of poetry, The Review Mirror, was published by Unsolicited Press in September, 2013. On Sunday mornings, at 11 AM Central time, he talks about poetry on WRFN-LP in Pasquo, TN (www.radiofreenashville.org).
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