"Myra, Her Husband, and the Physician"
1. believe none of what you hear
I can hear every word they say; I know
dying is most common. I know more
than they realize. I know seraphs dress in black silk,
perch on windowsills, carry a skeleton key
in their pointed beaks. Come away, come with me,
come home, the seraph caws three times like a crow.
It wears no halo and its sixth wing is bent upwards,
an omen in a hurricane, a pinion that beckons
like a man's succulent lips. Inviting,
as if it knows there is a god.
2. believe half of what you see
I talk to her even though I know
she can't hear a word I say. I know more
than I care to. I know a silly bird has flown
to this windowsill at the worst moment,
a braying black donkey drunk on Dewar's.
Once, twice, three times it screeches until the misfit key
in its beak falls to the floor. A sign, she would say.
Only a sign that birds steal shiny objects
lost like urchins in the streets. Abandoned,
as if it knows there is no god.
3. first, do no harm
I spend too much time talking, though I know
patients never listen. I know more
than any of them. I know crows land
on these windowsills with the frequency of rain
in Hilo, convincing idiots they are a portent
of miracles. This black Peter betrays me three times;
I am forced to wring its neck to stop the protests.
From its scrawny beak, a caduceus-shaped key
drops at my feet like an offering. Worshipped,
as if it knows that I am god.
© 2006 M
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