ONE CURE ONLY

by Burgess Needle

At dawn, no matter his mood, one cure only
for his fractured soul, Bach’s violin Concerto No. 1
        with A Minor chords lapping wall to wall
        against religious law.
He wrapped the black leather strap
       around his middle finger and left arm
       ah, his tefillin received upon bar mitzvah.
Placed the phylactery two fist-width from the tip of his nose
       murmuring inside all the while
       blessed art thou who sanctified us with
      His commandments and has commanded us
                   to lay tefillin
He’d kept his own brittle shellac recording
         of Menuhin and Enesco with tracks laid
        down by Aufgenommen in the ‘30s.
Resonating as he considered  the black box on his head
        symbolized his mind and thoughts
        just as the arm straps represented
                 his actions and deeds.
Exhale in joy before the Orchestre Symphonique de Paris
       prepare for the world of numbers, he thought
       prepare for the world of goyim in my disguise
Acknowledge light peering through the blinds
      he thought of his son-to-be and what he would show him
      as the Concerto’s Andante wended its own quiet way
      within an elegant framework that sheltered
               and threatened its existence
As his own life felt dread every new day
               the sun’s blessing and the night’s threat
               time for work time for life
                           time to kiss his wife goodbye.

GOODBYE TO SIT AND CRY

[Note: the author taught English for two years in the Thai town of Nangrong – which means “Sit and Cry”]

by Burgess Needle

                   

Saying goodbye to the town of Sit and Cry

One otherwise uneventful weekday

Except the students all turned out

            Girls in white blouses

            Boys in scout uniforms

And Headmaster Suraporn, of course, straight

            As a recent operation allowed

            To shake my hand with a dry palm

Eyes narrowed by too many mornings

            Facing the sun as the flag was raised

That open-sided bus waited for me once more

            As it had so many times for trips

            To Buriram, Korat or Surin

I wanted to pocket the scent

            Of kerosene wicks from every evening

Save the feel of my mosquito net brushing my face

The taste of ripe bananas sweetened

            With Carnation milk

Hear the temple gong reverberate

Hold an image of a nearby pond

            Nong Tamue beneath pink twilight

            With silhouettes of coconut palms

So sharp against the remaining sky they seemed

            To have been made of cut black paper

I departed as I arrived

            With a driver in blue uniform

            A monk by my side

DESTINATION WITH NIGHT

by Burgess Needle

Watch the realm of physics
                   Being stretch on Tucson
                   highways where saguaros
Bow and bend
                  as speed turns these
                  vertical green statues
To watercolor blurs
                  becoming the blue of Omega
                  infinite horizons
Where blue-green turns
                  violet just before
                  our destination with night
And everything comes to rest
                  including the pale atoms
                  of all that matters