The Vocation

And when I woke again,I was the ant, beholdento meat and honey, to the city,its institution of pine needles,straw brooms, and chalk.I was the dog namedBlack Habit.my body in its hunger. I wasso thin I could have beenmy mother in her cotton uniformriding the bus in the rare airof December. Pregnantthough one wouldn’t have beencertain of it looking at her,even near the end. The citypushed its agenda of smoke.The river ran along its concrete banks.The stations, the secrets,and the light still bendingthrough her two brothers, throughtheir tangled hair, belongedto anyone. Still. He wroteand he wrote, too. And in the stories,the men broke into songas they swept snow in the streets,each with the sudden trainof a wedding dress, or the menslammed the table when they laughedat their circumstance, or dranktoo much to learn what it meantto have a brother, or were true tono end, or tried to love their fathersbefore they disappeared intohagiography. And when they pushedthe smoke out before them, it wasa nostalgic act. And the smokeleft its residue. And when theydrank, they bloomed and seemedsaturated not by bloodbut by a color. For years,and still not long enough,they went on, flashing like wingscatching what light wasallowed, and were not inuredto burning. And there wereintervals of boredombred by abundance. Andthere were intervals of wind,when names scattered withthe anarchy of unwanted thingsand the branch snapped,irrevocable. And stillthere were intervalswhen their voices were carriedbecause it was good to heara familiar story in someone else’s voice.And when they were carried,they were bitter to be carriedstill only partway to heaven.