The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Always: Difference between revisions

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looks down and sees Manhattan as Babel
looks down and sees Manhattan as Babel
built on bedrock and whistling in the wind.
built on bedrock and whistling in the wind.
</poem>


<poem>
He’d ingested descriptions of Gomorrah
He’d ingested descriptions of Gomorrah
and vowed not to lie with the swine,
and vowed not to lie with the swine,
an earnest but dubious intention, like a boy
an earnest but dubious intention, like a boy
with webbed hands forswearing masturbation.
with webbed hands forswearing masturbation.
</poem>
 
<poem>
Propped in confessional, coin-slot gypsy
Propped in confessional, coin-slot gypsy
working Wakefield’s flock without effect,
working Wakefield’s flock without effect,
his mechanical arm allotted dispensation
his mechanical arm allotted dispensation
for sins that made ''his'' vitals ache,
for sins that made ''his'' vitals ache,
</poem>
 
<poem>
''his'' collared understanding crave the light.
''his'' collared understanding crave the light.
How to counsel salesmen on fidelity, virgins
How to counsel salesmen on fidelity, virgins
on the roots of desire? Other voices
on the roots of desire? Other voices
had announced his calling, but the scream
had announced his calling, but the scream
</poem>
 
<poem>
that tore the darkness was his own.
that tore the darkness was his own.
So, in the Oak Room of the Plaza, surrounded
So, in the Oak Room of the Plaza, surrounded
by dowagers waiting opulently on death,
by dowagers waiting opulently on death,
his mind turns elegant perversities:
his mind turns elegant perversities:
</poem>
 
<poem>
he is naked, bearer of bread and fishes,
he is naked, bearer of bread and fishes,
plying a gospel of swift return. Offered
plying a gospel of swift return. Offered
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it is always the living who are saved.
it is always the living who are saved.
</poem>  
</poem>  
|}
|}


Revision as of 22:39, 2 March 2021

« The Mailer Review • Volume 13 Number 1 • 2019 »
Written by
Sal Cetrano
URL: http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3



Always

Sal Cetrano
<poem>
A fallen priest on a shuttle flight
padding the holes in his resume
looks down and sees Manhattan as Babel
built on bedrock and whistling in the wind.

He’d ingested descriptions of Gomorrah
and vowed not to lie with the swine,
an earnest but dubious intention, like a boy
with webbed hands forswearing masturbation.

Propped in confessional, coin-slot gypsy
working Wakefield’s flock without effect,
his mechanical arm allotted dispensation
for sins that made his vitals ache,

his collared understanding crave the light.
How to counsel salesmen on fidelity, virgins
on the roots of desire? Other voices
had announced his calling, but the scream

that tore the darkness was his own.
So, in the Oak Room of the Plaza, surrounded
by dowagers waiting opulently on death,
his mind turns elegant perversities:

he is naked, bearer of bread and fishes,
plying a gospel of swift return. Offered
a sanctum with mirrors, he will say,
it is always the living who are saved.

|}

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