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Nowhere    in   the Halakha’s     five   thousand   years   of   rules does   it     specifically    state Thou     shall     not     [                      ] but     sometimes    tradition    carries    more     weight    than    law and   so   for    much   of   the    past    year   we    have   not    talked about     what    will    happen    on     Thursday,    how   the    cervix will     start     its     slow    yawn,     the     pelvic      floor     straining as         the           head        crowns,      the      fontanelles     allowing the       bony        panes       of       the      skull     to      pass    through until,     over    the   next    24   months,    the   five   cranial   plates gradually      ossify,     the      head      forming    its     own    helmet as     structures     harden    over   the    soft    meats   of  the  brain, nor     do   we    talk   about    the   colostrum  sunny  as egg   yolks now   collecting  in   your   breasts,   the    thing’s   first   nutrients already    ready    and    waiting,    the     event    just    days   away and   still  we  do  not  talk  about it, the mass growing inside you tucked    up    safe     in   the     leeward   side    under    the   heart because   sometimes   our   god   is   a  jealous god,   the evil   eye lidless    and    all-seeing.  Instead  we  will wait  until  it is  done, until  the  creature  has been  cleaned and wrapped in soft cloth, the    bloody     cord   that    binds    you    severed.    And   maybe you       will      name      it      Dolores,      which       means     grief, or perhaps you will call it Mara, the Hebrew name for bitterness because       this      is      how     we      protect     what     we    love, by   hiding   what  it   truly  means  to   us,  the little  bag  of  gold we    keep   buried   in  the  yard,   the  thing  we will do anything to      keep      safe,      even    going     so      far    as    to     pretend it    doesn’t    exist,   that   there’s   nothing  massing in  the  dark despite  the steady  light  emanating  from  your  face, a radiance so bright sometimes I can’t look at you, the joy so  overpowering you     want    to     shout   it     from   the    highest    mountaintop straight into God’s ear.

for Jim Carroll, on his birthday A lovely body gracefully is nodding Out of a blue Buffalo Monday morning curls softly rising color the air it’s yellow above the black plane beneath a red tensor I’ve been dreaming. The telephone kept ringing & ringing Clear & direct, purposeful yet pleasant, still taking pleasure in bringing the good news, a young man in horn-rims’ voice is speaking while I listen. Mr. Berrigan, he says, & without waiting for an answer goes on, I’m happy to be able to inform you that your request for a Guggenheim Foundation Grant Has been favorably received by the committee, & approved. When would you like to leave? Uh, not just yet, I said, uh, what exactly did I say with regards to leaving, in my application … I’m a little hazy at the moment. Yes. Your project, as outlined in your application for a grant for the purpose of giving Jim Carroll the best possible birthday present you could get him, through our Foundation, actually left the project, that is, how the monies would be spent, up to us. You indicated, wisely, I think, that we knew more about what kind of project we would approve than you did, so we should make one up for you, since all you wanted was money, to buy Jim a birthday gift. Aha! I said. So, what’s up? We have arranged for you and Jim to spend a year in London, in a flat off of King’s Row. You will receive 250 pounds a month expenses, all travel expenses paid, & a clothing allowance of 25 pounds each per month. During the year, At your leisure, you might send us from time to time copies of your London works. By year’s end I’m sure you each will have enough new poems for two books, Which we would then publish in a deluxe boxed hardcover edition, for the rights to which we shall be prepared to pay a considerable sum, as is your due. We feel that this inspired project will most surely result in The first major boxed set of works since Tom Sawyer & Huckleberry Finn! Innocents Abroad in reverse, so to speak! We know your poems, yours & Jim’s, will tell it like it is, & that is what we are desperate to know! So, when would you like to leave? Immediately, I shouted! & Jim! I called, Jim! Happy Birthday! Wake up!

Flaunting in the atrium, ostentatious at the gates I saw a shooting star thru a window on Alcatraz Ave & cladding struck up against those who demand We stomach the stick and tend the commode They're selling trees in the paint store! trees in the paint store Datebook chips in the soft skin of our wrists On NBC, CNN, and NPR broken windows are weeping We'll have 35 apples and shrieking in the thickets Aloft in the air golden and golden the dial among the mounds So much is stunted in understanding of what a light can be They storm the scrimmage line and clear-cut bran and germ We want the petal unto itself, the unalterable vessel The arc end of the precipice grows 1.9% annually What was popular music like before the crisis?

A blue and green city, with the sun rising behind it, just not swiftly enough Don’t worry about being perfect. Just make sure you have some juice left in the pump I have many other remedies on hand, not just history’s bags of sumptuous soot Hello, I am beauty’s representative; I work in the self-improvement sector Don’t worry about being perfect. Just make sure you have some juice left in the pump How do you see yourself on the material plane of observed 
phenomena Hello, I am beauty’s representative; I work in the self-improvement sector Have you ever been sideswiped by a bad investment in love How do you see yourself on the material plane of observed 
phenomena You might need a reevaluation, an estimate, or an era to expire Have you ever been sideswiped by a bad investment in love Before you decide that you are nothing more than a clump or splatter You might need a reevaluation, an estimate, or an era to expire Have you learned how to remove yourself from every mirror you pass Before you decide that you are nothing more than a clump or splatter Let me tell you about the palm trees on the horizon of your future Have you learned how to remove yourself from every mirror you pass A blue and green city, with the sun rising behind it, just not swiftly enough Let me tell you about the palm trees on the horizon of your future I have many other remedies on hand, not just history’s bags of sumptuous soot

Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that’s young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

Make and be eaten, the poet says, Lie in the arms of nightlong fire, To celebrate the waking, wake. Burn in the daylong light; and praise Even the mother unappeased, Even the fathers of desire. Blind go the days, but joy will see Agreements of music; they will wind The shaking of your dance; no more Will the ambiguous arm-waves spell Confusion of the blessing given. Only and finally declare Among the purest shapes of grace The waking of the face of fire, The body of waking and the skill To make your body such a shape That all the eyes of hope shall stare. That all the cries of fear shall know, Staring in their bird-pierced song; Lines of such penetration make That shall bind our loves at last. Then from the mountains of the lost, All the fantasies shall wake, Strong and real and speaking turn Wherever flickers your unreal. And my strong ghosts shall fade and pass My love start fiery as grass Wherever burn my fantasies, Wherever burn my fantasies. April 1955

I found my muster station, sir. My skin is patent leather. The tourists are recidivists. This calm is earthquake weather. I’ve used up all the mulligans. I’d kill to share a vice. The youngster reads a yellowed Oui. The socialite has lice. The Europe trip I finally took was rash and Polaroid, was gilt, confit, and bathhouse foam. And I cannot avoid the end: I will not die in Paris, won’t rest for good behind a painted mausoleum door. The purser will not find me mummified beneath your tulle, and Paris will not burn. Today is Thursday, so I’ll die. Come help me pick my urn.

Now that I have your face by heart, I look Less at its features than its darkening frame Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame, Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd’s crook. Beyond, a garden. There, in insolent ease The lead and marble figures watch the show Of yet another summer loath to go Although the scythes hang in the apple trees. Now that I have your face by heart, I look. Now that I have your voice by heart, I read In the black chords upon a dulling page Music that is not meant for music’s cage, Whose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed. The staves are shuttled over with a stark Unprinted silence. In a double dream I must spell out the storm, the running stream. The beat’s too swift. The notes shift in the dark. Now that I have your voice by heart, I read. Now that I have your heart by heart, I see The wharves with their great ships and architraves; The rigging and the cargo and the slaves On a strange beach under a broken sky. O not departure, but a voyage done! The bales stand on the stone; the anchor weeps Its red rust downward, and the long vine creeps Beside the salt herb, in the lengthening sun. Now that I have your heart by heart, I see.

Love has crept into her sealed heart As a field bee, black and amber, Breaks from the winter-cell, to clamber Up the warm grass where the sunbeams start. Love has crept into her summery eyes, And a glint of colored sunshine brings Such as his along the folded wings Of the bee before he flies. But I with my ruffling, impatient breath Have loosened the wings of the wild young sprite; He has opened them out in a reeling flight, And down her words he hasteneth. Love flies delighted in her voice: The hum of his glittering, drunken wings Sets quivering with music the little things That she says, and her simple words rejoice.

Maybe my soul is straight and good, but she’s got to lug my heart, my blood, which all hurts because it’s crooked; its weight sends her staggering. She has no bed, she has no home, she merely hangs on my sharp bones, flapping her terrible wings. And my hands are completely shot, shriveled, worn: here, take a look at how they clammily, clumsily hop like rain-crazed toads. As for all the other stuff, it’s all used up and sad and old— why doesn’t God haul me out to the muck and let me drop. Is it because of my mug with its frowning mouth? So often I would itch to be luminous and free of fog but nothing would approach except big dogs. And the dogs got zilch.