page 207

Places, Places

A mistranslation gave Moses
his horns and they stuck.
What you see is what we are—
ignominious physiognomy,
our lumps writ large. At the party,
the drunk surgeon moans I've seen
the human heart. No zoo's a bestiary.
Even the greatest sometimes paint
an awfully heavy halo. On behalf
of our hands, the pugilist puppets
go at it, Pulcinella giving the Devil
what for. Behind the scrim, a man,
and now his hands are kissing.
Ask if he's Pulcinella and he'll say
if only. The overeager guidebook
claims the fish is tastiest when it looks
like nothing you've seen before,
claims masks were worn year round
in the time of the Republic.
Imagine the words of the wives:
Dear, you're not wearing that face,
are you? I'd like to think I'd give
what for. I'd like to think that mine's
a heart-shaped face and written all over.
No reliquary's mine to regulate
and if one were I wouldn't.
Perhaps what's under glass is not
the finger that touched the wound
but it's certainly a finger.