Statue of a Lion at the New York Library

There are pigeon droppings
on my mane, but it doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters when you are
encased in stone. A day
or a thousand years are the same.

I cannot hear the city,
only the everlasting sound
of the ocean trapped in a hollow conch.

Before my fur was rock
it was the orange of chaos.
My gold eye, the fate
of wilder beasts, and my tongue
a sponge for lapping blood.

It is over, our time together.
Photographs dismembered,
plates broken like gazelles.

Another pigeon lands on my head.
I prefer this.
I prefer this to the steel bars
of your jealousy, and your fear
of being struck by fate.

DQ 11/16/07

The Crucifixion

Had I known where it led
I would have chosen a different
path. Not that I had a choice

to have my arms secured
to opposite sides of my chest
by nails, or feet immobilized

to a wooden plank by another,
while my head was free to turn
to either side. My wife on one.

You on the other. My mother
kneeling in front, taking pictures
of all us singing happily around

the birthday cake. Someone said:
“There is your mother”
I suppose the spear is next.

DQ 11/9/07