Many Miracles


Some money is made.
Some money is invented.
Hey! This is a treatise on
the economically depressed.
Some children will be born
with people standing on
their chests. “Why not
incur a little more debt,”
says Mischief Mary, turning off
the mute.
A string of saliva connects
her baby mouth to her baby thumb.
Pray the telephone line stay hooked
up to the pole. Of many miracles,
one is that our Mary is born
knowing how to scream so she’ll be very,
very audible!
How sweet her cradle smells:
the whole thing smells like her head;
how soon, how soon upon it
many heavy things will land. How small
the things inside the cradle, and the
lady that within it lays, for now!
The Bad Science indicates that
Mary does indeed feel and
Mary’s feelings are Real insofar
as her feelings redound to,
compose, and/or refract the Real.
Point, or fact! Mary doesn’t know
it yet.


Mommy! get down off of Mary’s
chest. Now. Just because she nearly
killed you coming out is no call
for such large revenge.
Peek down at the quiet little
grasping blob and see where there
now pop out two veinous purple dots.
“ ’Tis the mark of the weighty world
On your heart, my lass,” said mommy,
tipping the remainder of her glass into her
throat and lowering her eyes.
(Actually not any science can say
for sure what both men and women
children are both born with nipples for.
To milkfeed the household cat?
Likely not.
Assume, then, they’re the vestigial scars of
the high heel prints of the World’s
First Mom who For Just One Sec
hazarded to undo mom’ing the World’s
First Son!)
Even in her older years every
time Mary gets sad or drawn to
tears you may hear her mutter out of old
habit, “ach, feels like a
bucket full o’ Rocks is pressing down on
me chest like i’m down below the dirt!
(Methinks that Someone never finished up
her work!)”


But, Sweet, another feeling comes
fluttering and winging up, like
when moths come to stick uglily
to the surface of a lamp,
playing hard to live.
Mary has made her return from
combing through her debts;
kicking up from some terrible vault
our girl hangs on to an angel for Dear Life
like a moth pinioned to a light—
pretending to be light.