AT THE CROSSROAD
Hectate was always the one who entertained us.
Latin was never spoken here. How strange.
Yes, we always left gifts, quite a few,
enough to satisfy wild dogs, selfish men jackals,
and Rhiiannon who flew here to satisfy me
watching through the open bathroom door,
the shower curtain missing, shampoo coursing through my hair,
Saturday night, late. (Perhaps it was Sunday morning, early.)
Our gods watched us imprison the fugitives deep in the sand
until only their heads were exposed.
Then the earth began to shake and roll releasing a fresh spring.
Carob trees sprouted out of nowhere and there was shade and
Then an angel appeared badly disfigured as a foreign trader.
Not able to fold her wings, she kneeled before father and son.
There was no need for all of this. These men were thieves.
They deserved punishment, but she knew of them what we did not.
With a look she silenced us into another place.
An earthquake was not necessary to set them free.
This too happened at the crossroad.
His thin face consternation
peeled back into anguish.
The air cruel, the wind,
A lack of sunlight, but no clouds,
The sky gray blue/blue gray.
He is too thin, too straight,
Sickness inside cheeks and eyes.
Cold seeps into all things,
A cold moisture of mold and distrust,
Everywhere a browning of grass.
Michael H. Brownstein