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from Questions of Faith
I.
Does faith grow like moss
on the cloistered fountain-
porous, vibrant, green-
until the stony edges
of doubt and indifference
soften and billow,
pushing each other
into new shapes,
fabulous and undreamed?
Santa Eulalia
Barcelona, Spain
IV.
Was it you who sent me the dreams
of angels who murmured the plain truth
from a white balcony one night
and a child who played in shit the next?
Was if you who told Lorca,
"Light is God descending."
Was it you who convinced Michelangelo
that he could reconcile the sun's moving warmth
and the North Star's fixed coldness
by pulling this church from the ruins
of Roman baths?
Which way is it, Angel of Light,
your feet, tense and alive, against the ground
or your hands grasping at heaven?
Santa Maria degli Angeli
Rome, Italy
V.
What is the kinship
between the wedding dresses
cascading down the walls of this shrine
and the stuffed crocodile that hangs over them?
The satin trains shimmer like so many candles
and the prayers sewn to their hems flutter
in the light from a single window
while the headless beast hides in its glare,
high, near the ceiling. There it is,
no hope pinned to its tail.
Santuario de Consolacion
Utrera, Spain
VI.
Were you as surprised to see me
as I was to see you so close
behind the screen, your faces
framed in the black and white
habits of faith which rustled
as you shifted to make room
for the late arrivals, murmuring
to one another like so many
restless birds in a cage
while I, free to come and go
with my doubts, perched alone
on the edge of a nearby bench?
Convento de Purisimo Concepcion
Utrera, Spain
VII.
What sense do you make of this temple,
where hundreds of red and black columns
support red and white arches, each arch
supporting one more? What sense
do you make of this dizzy unfolding
of one austere faith in which nests
the gaudy jewel of another?
Mezquita de Cordoba
Cordoba, Spain
ii. Man Working
iii. Man Mending
one limb branching into two, or two joining
The wood is old, peeled free of bark. Insect trails
What is this need to build something together,
now, while we lie against each other, waiting
Narrow leaves,
Rosy petals, lush,
The seedpods,
The bees are dizzy with hope.
Tamra Hays, currently living and teaching in Cairo, Egypt, has taught in public and independent schools in New Mexico, Italy, and Egypt. Her poetry, which has been published in literary journals in New Mexico and elsewhere, springs from close observation of the world around her. She is a dues-paying, rejection-collecting member of Albuquerque's Poets' Union. Many of these poems are part of a longer cycle called Questions of Faith which she wrote while on a sabbatical in Spain during 2002-03 school year. Others came later while in Egypt (2006). Other of her work has been published in Conceptions Southwest, the rag, the Harwood Review, and the Florida Review. (July 2004, April 2006, April 2007)
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Shirts
i. Man Praying
A man sits in Chapultepec Park,
the heart of Mexico City, immobile,
as if at prayer, before a mound
of paper and cardboard, plastic and glass.
The wind lifts the paper. The boxes settle.
His hair lifts and settles. His hair, his skin,
his shirt, stiff and dark with dirt, could be one
substance, burnished with one patina.
He turns his head, stares into the traffic.
A new leaf drifts into the pile of trash.
Three lanes of cars idle at the red light.
A man steps into the crosswalk. Barechested,
he carries his shirt, now a bundle of ways
to make a living, in his hand. He lays
it on the pavement, opens it, smoothes
out a pile of broken glass. For a few
centavos, he entertains the drivers
during their brief wait. He lowers himself,
his chest to the glass, rubs against it,
as if it were warm sand, or a woman.
A man, sitting among the sculptures,
in a screened gazebo, mends his shirt.
He is the steward of the art, the torsos
and limbs, the shells and birds, the conquerors
and virgins that emerge from bronze,
clay, glass and wood, materials
that yield. There are no patrons. The steady
movement of his hand pulls the needle
through thin faded cloth. That and the breeze
are the only movements this afternoon.
Sweet Potato Man
The steam whistle from the sweet potato
man's cart pierces the other night noises
in Polanco--a siren, the voices
of passersby, the radio downstairs.
Our conversation, cool and difficult,
has failed. Now, suddenly, we must have sweet
potatoes for dessert. We calculate
his progress by the whistle, at the park,
the gallery, our corner. You leave, return.
You carry sweet potatoes in white bowls.
Sweet potatoes with pale flesh and charred skins,
diced and drizzled with thick milk and honey.
Warm sweet potatoes, smoky and tender
bits on our tongues. We eat them piece by piece.
The Arbor
Today, we built an arbor out of tree limbs
and baling wire.Ê It has three legs and we searched
the bosque for a forked branch to span the top,
Êinto one, depending on your perspective.
Its crookedness is enchanting, you said, or demented.
Êetch the dry surface in regular patterns, leaving
the story of lives lived beneath our notice.
to plant a green vine, to hope that one day
birds will come? What restlessness does it allay
for something peaceful to rise from the deadfall of sleep?
Destiny
My destiny,
or at least my destination,
is to enter your right eyebrow,
to ride its quizzical slant,
its wild arc,
to nest in its luxuriant tangle
until I slide down the stray hair
that approaches your eye.
I will lodge there.
I will be the lash, the dust,
the happiness that provokes
your tears.
Weight
When one thing led to another and we married
in midlife, my self slipped away. I began to lift
weights, hoping that would hold what was left of me
to the ground. I worked out in front of a mirrored wall,
studying the asymmetries of the woman facing me:
the shoulder that carried the burdens, the one that was free;
the strong wrist, the weak; the outward thrust of one hip.
There is the push, the pull of the weight; the lift and release,
lift and release. At home you say, give me weight,
and I lie on top of you, align my limbs with yours,
sink my chest against yours, press my forehead to yours.
You breathe my air, and I am tethered to your breath.
The Leonids
A small congregation assembles
twenty minutes away from the city
lights, on the dark side of the mountain.
Where the paths of the Earth
and the comet intersect, scientists
promise quite a show, a cosmic game
of rock, paper, scissorsÑa starfall.
So the star watchers stand, noses pointed
skyward, like obelisks every which way.
No matter which way they look,
there will be quicksilver streaks of light.
There will be silence, no warning hiss,
no metallic smell, no afterimage
to confirm what they believe has happened.
Desert Willow
Smooth taupe bark sheathes
the limber branches.
thin and self-contained
like some women,
provide a sparse shade,
relief at being alone.
ruffled and noisy with color
like other women,
attract my eye.
thin and long and green,
hide among the leaves,Ê
but the story will be told.
The pods will dry and twist apart.
The seeds will spring free.