Transparent Things, God-Sized Hole

All transparent things need

               thunder shirts. The little

ghost hanging from an eave,

               on Underwood

Street, a piece of

               lavender-tinted

netting stretched onto

               a metal frame. The Boston

terriers and Chihuahuas patiently

               wait out storms

with their eyes bulging

               in their special

wraparound shirts. My

               family used to

laugh at me

               sleeping under

two down quilts, wearing a wool

               hat in summer,

when I said

               I was afraid

otherwise I would

               fly up to the ceiling.

Once on a sidewalk

               beside Erie Street

around the corner

               from Underwood

where the pointless

               obsolete

tracks run to a dead end

               on the other side,

I found a black

               and silver rosary,

with shining

               onyx beads, like

the ones

               that you see

hanging

               from the belts of

nuns in their habits or priests

               in their chasubles.

I kept it

               carefully until either

I lost it or it got buried

               in the bottom of a purse

abandoned under

               my bed or in the

closet. Clutter keeps

               me bound to

this earth.

                      I told Patti last night

               that the God-sized

hole in me was

               so big and vacant,

voracious and spacious,

               it was like I was

running some kind

               of desperate toddler’s

shape-sorter game, trying to find

               something that fit

to plug into it. I’d stuff anything

               in there, regardless

of whether the shape

               coincided with

the opening. It was

               like I could look

at the sky and attract

               space junk, broken

satellites, spent rocket

               stages,

micrometeoroids, to

               plug the

gap.

               The wind is its own

kind of chaos,

               sometimes like a sheet

of itself tangled

               or flowing

on a celestial

               clothesline. It needs

a weighted blanket.

               Little red flags

on the maple

               at the corner of

Underwood and Erie

               near the switching yard.

Slow-moving locomotives

               that might be driven by

nobody. Flags

               hold the tree down,

mark it, make it know

               it’s real.

Flapping on the flaming maple

               or falling.