LOUIS MCKEE
THE BUSHES
I’m sure the bush on Sinai
burned and spoke to the man
troubled and tired and needing
fire to kiln the words,
to bake the fresh bread
of communion. When I kneel
in my garden I almost believe
my bushes have something to say,
something burning inside
that will help me to understand
where I am going, what I should do.
I worry when I reach out
with my shears and snip
at what I think is unimportant.
On this hard mud ground
sparks will not catch;
much is left unsaid.
Tonight I sat on the side of my bed
and stared into the knot of my hands.
I wanted to feel the full rush of the fan
on my bare chest and shoulders,
but I realized, too, that it was the same
way I had sat at night when I believed,
and I couldn’t lie down without saying
something about it. It is for the air
tonight, I keep telling myself, the whole
time looking into the bowl of my hands,
distracted by thoughts I never expected
to have again. When a life is held
at arms’ length, the hands like those
of a priest, the fingers consecrated
and knotted to keep it all together,
it seems somehow less overpowering.
Once a bird flew into the wire fence
next to where I was working the garden.
It was mostly shock, I guess; it moved
as though on one foot, one wing spread open.
I picked it up and held it out in front of me
with both hands, and almost right away
it was gone, so quickly I felt nothing,
or maybe had no time to feel the nothingness.
Whenever I saw a priest at Mass, whenever
I heard the sacring-bells, I waited for the gold
chalice to rise above his head, to keep going
and to take our craning necks and awful eyes
with it. Mostly the golden cup stayed
where it was, and the priest set it down
on the altar, genuflecting behind it.
Maybe he had no time to feel the nothingness.
Whatever there was in my hands tonight,
it is gone. It has been a long time
since I’ve knelt. Instead, I turn off the fan;
as hot as the room is, I’ll sleep better
if the only sound I hear is that of birds
singing for their lives outside my window.
