I. The Magazine
Mantegna's weeping echos in our gorge
of thorax swollen, rigor mortis sets
Mary and John, their teardrops bulge and barge
into our world, mourning the shepherd's death.
Glow and shadow, sun and shade remain
upon dead center: holy genitals.
Phillipe de Champaigne brings muscled thorns,
Carracci lays down tongs that just pulled spikes
Bellini lifts the herder's head to block
the gorge's landscape – still it looks so... cross.
Strozzi says, "How young he seems. A fetus
thirty-three years old who died."
"By torture," Manet adds, "You see the eyes?
He will not close his eyes.
He will not close his eyes.
He will not close his eyes.
He will not close his eyes.
He will not close his eyes."
III. Conversatio
Did you like the poem?
Yes I knew him.
We're closer to the body, now,
so close...
I don't want to tell the story,
just read on,
occupy yourself:
I. The Magazine
Oh sure, there's other mourners here in line.
Giovanni and his angels,
not a one of them know what to do
what to do
what to do next,
they stare at each other,
Sabbath-like, in fact,
as they hold our lovely little Jewish shepherd king.
III. Conversatio
A friend of a friend and that is enough, just read:
I. The Magazine
Gregorio's here, "Why the knees?" he begs
"They didn't need to scrape and skin his knees!"
III. Conversatio
Yes, okay, his name was
Austin. Austin Freeman,
is that enough?
Will you leave me alone?
I. The Magazine
Mazzola brings his young quadruplets up
both boys are nekked
two little wee-wees
two little girls in tu-tus
all four hold the corpse.
"It's stiff," they say, "and cold."
"Move along," Mazzola says, "and move alone."