An Oldie with a Story

I brought this poem to a workshop I was fortunate enough to participate in; it was facilitated by the luminous and magical Nikky Finney. I could go on about how inspiring she is and how she has THE MOST INCREDIBLE poem about trees and Toni Cade Bambara and how the singular fact that she is a professor at a university in Kentucky was nearly enough to make me relocate to the bluegrass state for graduate school (despite being unsure of a course of study), but I digress...

It was workshopped by my peers, and I carefully noted all of their suggestions and questions. So, this is actually at least the second draft (probably third, as I tend to edit when transcribing), but it is still not finished by any stretch of the imagination.


NPM #12

"Idolatry"

Each morning before dawn,
I brought fruit and grain to your polished altar,
and I worshipped you -
golden body set on a marble pedestal,
flawless and gleaming,
powerful and pristine.
Menacing metallic grin and steadfast eyes
record my ever feeble attempt to please you.

But you refused my offering.

So each morning before dawn,
I brought the ripest fruit and the freshest grain
to your polished altar, and I worshipped you...
Coming to you before the daylight,
staying long after twilight,
never leaving to replenish myself.
Tearing my robes for rags, using tears for balm,
I gloss your splendor in my naked humiliation
and beg forgiveness of sins I did not commit.

Forsaking all else, I worshipped you.

But the wind or the rain always put out the flame,
and my offering was never complete.
While I was consumed by fire.
Because the fruit could not bow
because the grain could not cry
because that offering did not feed you.

So, worn from reverence, I slept for three days,
and your dawn did not come for three days.

I came once more to your altar -
the fruit rotting,
the grain stale.
There was a crack in your marble pedestal,
rust on your golden frame...
And I brought the dawn.

Kneeling to gather my baskets and rags,
I was tempted to worship once more.
But I raised my eyes to see your fallen frame
peeling like poor plaster.
And my eyes followed the flakes down to the baskets,
where I gazed upon my golden hands.