A Shadow Crucifix

Botticelli’s crucifix,

two slats of painted, varnished wood,

casts a shadow crucifix

darker than a threat. Despite

the agony, the figure looks

caught in the rictus of dance.

The tattered locks dangle like moss,

the loincloth’s tourniquet-tight,

the downcast expression has shut

against this world and the next.

How much distance do we need

to impose on the Renaissance

to escape it? The varnish gleams

with confidence. Surely it’s not

the original finish the artist

applied with quiet satisfaction.

Surely some atheist intervention

polished this object to appear

rich enough to deny itself.

But the shadow doesn’t lie.

Guided by naked intuition,

the curator placed this crucifix

so the light would cast this comment

in deep exclamatory mode.

Even doubters like me can’t doubt

the extra dimension imposed

by the gray border of this ultra

black shadow. Although this painted

Jesus can’t look behind him

to note the bottomless dark,

he must feel slightly comforted

by confounding the illusion

of two-dimensional painting

from which in the secular world

no vital essence escapes.

Northern Avenue Bridge

The Northern Avenue Bridge closed

years ago to motor traffic.

Pedestrians still cross unless

the red light blinks and the swing

span opens for water craft

on Fort Point Channel. Rusty

steelwork casts elaborate shadows

on the weed-trimmed deck. I pause

at the west end and note the swing

span open although no boats appear.

The channel looks deep enough

to float a cruise ship. If I dropped

from here I’d sink so far the flesh

would peel from the bone before

I ever touched bottom. Long ago,

bicycling over this bridge, I saw

two kids diving into the dark,

splashing like seals, laughing off

the threat of drowning and shouts

of the bridge-keeper whose shack

still clung to one abutment

reached by a long wooden stair.

That shack collapsed in a storm

at least forty years ago

and lingered as a ruin for two

more decades before slipping

forever into the dark. The shadows

cast by the girders look strong

enough to support real traffic

again, but the city engineers

in their finite wisdom declared

the weight-bearing impossible,

and for a long time considered

the swing span inoperable

and so propped it open for good.

Now it works again but only

for sloggers like me who prefer

their city travel slow and certain,

and who like to tempt ourselves

by crossing unsure dimensions

with all of our senses tingling

as shadow and light intersect.

Seta’s Cafe

In Seta’s café on Belmont Street

the menus scorch our hands. Arriving

by trolley bus in a blue

shower of sparks, we left

our fellow passengers tired

of the grunt and grind of crawling

from Harvard Square to the suburbs—

the gaunt rumple of Mount Auburn

pimpled with thousands of headstones

grimacing as we passed. We order

mezze to munch while we talk.

Hummus, metch, yalanchi, stuffed

cabbage washed down with espresso

and trimmed with slabs of za’atar.

We should never leave this warmth

and street view, should recuse

or refine our lifelong quarrel

so we can work in the kitchen

together, washing dishes, chopping

vegetables, sleeping on the floor

after hours when the buses

have parked behind chain-link fence

and the commuters snore all spooned

against each other. You fear me,

though, fear my agnostic silence,

my subtle readings of Emerson,

my lust for expensive power tools,

my disbelief in photographs,

my nostalgia for the whiskey death

Dylan Thomas so deeply enjoyed.

The café hums with pride in itself.

The plate glass windows shiver

as another bus passes. Cups

and saucers rattle. Other patrons

grow intimate with each other,

but we lean back and order

spinach and cheese turnovers

to anchor us to conversation

shaped by duty rather than love.