EditorsNote:Bulmans use of space on the page is spot on.His powerful imagery and metaphors draw the reader into the scene.TLC

* * * * * * * * * *

statue

PinnyBulman

the fire escapes here were all paintedcopper green

a reminder

that libertys surface can change

corrode, like the old pennies

once thrown at me

in an insult i didnt

yet understand

but my grandparents knew

about always looking to find thenearest window to exit

about the way time could turn loss

into patina, a hardened shell

whose hollow interior i once climbed ingrade school

to the crown where i stood looking east

from where we fled

on the ferry ride back i held tight

to my kippah shaking furiously

in the salty harbor wind.

PoetsNotes:This poem is dedicated to my grandparents, allHolocaust survivors who immigrated to America to rebuild their lives. They lostso much, yet never stopped giving.

EditorsNote:Bulmans subtle imagery,metaphor, and simile engages the reader. He surprises and touches the heartthroughout.TLC

Aboutthe Poet:Pinny Bulman is a Bronx Council on theArts BRIO award-winning poet. He has been winner of the Poets of NYC Contest,recipient of several ADR Poetry Awards, and a finalist for the Raynes PoetryPrize. His poems appeared in the 2020 anthologies Undeniable (Alternating Current Press) and Escape Wheel (great weather for MEDIA) and were published in Koreantranslation for Bridging the Waters III (KoreanExpatriate Literature Cross-Cultural Communications). Pinnys poetry hasalso appeared in a variety of other literary publications, including Muddy River Poetry Review, Artemis,Pressenza International, Red Paint Hill, and Poetry Quarterly.

** * * * * * * * *

FraTimoteo

LouisGirón

The Oneness and Its visions onceignited me.

Like the falling sickness, my storms ofecstasies

followed days of contemplation,fasting, and prayer.

I have been no less diligent now thanbefore,

yet seasons have passed barren of thatrapture.

My supplications and devotions, oncesovereign,

lie like bent coppers in the lint,griming green and black,

idle in the pouch of myself, unspent.

Unredeemable.

I recall that exaltation. By my soul, Ican do no other,

but memory fades, as if it were apassing dream,

or yesterdays soured confection ofcurdled froth and fancy.

My memories to that transport as are thesoiled

threads of beggars rags to the gold ofpapal robes.

Must it be, like fortunes and worldlyvanities, or worse,

like the bodies of those fallen fromthe plague and their clothes,

thrown into the bonfire, consumed,

scattered by winds or ground into themuck?

Let the birds speak. Let the rockssing.

I would see you again, Sister Moon.

And I would be touched again by Thee.

In fevered meditation, I have kneltfrom night to night and to night again in my cell.

As I know each verse of the Word and theface and name and wont of every brother of my order,

I know the shape, place, texture, damp,and impress of its every cold, unsinging stone.

I have fasted two weeks and a day. Iwas shriven.

Just after, my confessor was strickenby palsy and fell mute

whether from anger, envy, awe, or fear of my intent Icannot say.

The hairshirt has become mysecondskin.

The scourging and the festering soreshave gained me naught,

Not a candle lightens my melancholy. Norespite tempers my longing.

Sweet chords bring no sleep. And I haveneither flagons nor apples.

I love and would be loved. I rage tolove and to know love beyond that of mortals love.

Thus, have I taken counsel of theKabbalah, consorted with the Roma,

during nights bereft of stars, suppedwith the alchemists,

bargained with the Saracens, and, yes,trafficked with the forbidden magickers,

and, by that last, damned my eternalsoul for that same starved souls sake.

Which path can I take? To be in thatOneness again, I risk loss of paradise.

Solomons scales cannot call thisbalance; my tares are mad, inconstant in virtue.

The bar between the baskets swings likepenitents whips in this damning holy wager.

Certès, damnation awaits me not on one,but on both sides of this reckoning.

By my transgress, I have pushed thebalm of Gilead beyond my reach.

In truth, I have set my sails beforethis hour.

But now the tide goes out. The starsnod.

For I would know that rapture again,

even if I have chanted my last Complineon these shores.

I have just poured the Moors elixir

through muslin into the wine. Smoke

escapes from the unstoppered vial.

The husk of a scorpion falls on thecloth.

The wine burns my tongue, inflames mynose.

This vintage had been noble and sweetbefore.

I must be persuaded too that thesecards

of telling hold the power to open

the closed path to that communion Iseek.

I lift them in shaking hands, bringthem to my lips,

breathe and sign on them, and shuffle.

My fingertips dark and tingle with eachtremor,

with each pulse, and with each toss andpass of the cards.

My breath quickens, my heart hammers.

My throat is dry. My mouth, sand.

I am borne down by my cassock, amillstone of sweat.

The sweat is sour.

Tene!What does this first upturned card portend?

It bears the glowing image of theHanged Man.

It hails I hear trumpets, drumsnotdeath,

that my faith tells me is a Satanicillusion,

but always change of fortune.

A sign I take that Providence blessesthis my souls quest.

Look! As it did before, the moon shimmerswhere it was not.

It shines within a growing halo, ajagged, gold-hued rainbow. Glorious.

I smell rank incense burning though thethurible has not been lit. Odious.

I taste sulfur, demons droppings,carrion, and iron. Foul. Most foul.

A cataract roars about me. My shakinggrows constant, more violent.

Jésu!I am come.

The world I left cannot know, nor couldit ever withstand

Your Light, this Light that I seethrough closed and bleeding eyes

and then only in reflection.

In compare, the sun of noon in theSinai is a cold, powdered, and sickly moon.

And the powers and the terrors of thewells of hell

in weight like goslings feathers tothe mountains of Lebanon.

I turn. I spin. I fly.

Clouds drift beneath my feet. Starsbeckon.

Hello again, SisterMoon.Greetings, Father Sun.

I would commune with thesaints.The music, angelic, draws me.

Yes! Yes! I am the canticle of theLittle Rose.

Birds speak in praise, the obduratestones now soar in song,

and Iand the world entire are inchorus.

This rapture is of my flesh, and of theflowering and tearing of the flesh,

and beyond thatthat mortal flesh can bear.

Take me, my God. I am both the fire andthat that is consumed by fire.