Theodicy
—Bellow’s Massacre at Dinant and The German’s Arrive
The clergy raise
their gooseneck
arms to the God
who wouldn’t soften
the steel of bayonets
while the dust clouds
from German boots
through the next town
piggyback the countryside.
The butcher holds his wife
to his chest like a side of beef
while an old woman
pitchforks her hands,
her husband lacing his
into a blindfold.
The couple on the floor
next to me splice
their fingers
in loose knots,
arms contracting
and dilating like mouths
after climax
or before death.
On the canvas
above the couple’s mingling,
the Belgian boy’s severed
hand hitchhikes
on the ground
that could be
a threshing floor,
centuries-old
grain lodged in the cracks
like mortar joints,
while a German soldier
nooses him with an elbow.
The smoke heaves
and purls from rooftops
like David dancing
in a rage after Uzzah
laid hands on the jostled Ark
and God smote him
for David’s sin.
Re-Stroke I
—Balthus’ Nude Before a Mirror
The perennials must be on fire
outside, the dahlias, jonquils.
The lavender water pitcher
must have been an afterthought,
its somewhat existence
not even worth a reflection:
I want her to snap off its handle
and slip it over her veiny wrist
like a Bakelite bracelet.
I want to re-stroke the canvas,
harden that afterthought
and place it in her hands
so she can toss it out
the open window
where Balthus crouches.
