BATTLE READY

The aging priest nevermore sleeps at night.
He stands step-top, lighted candle in hand,
dressed in black sweat suit, prepped for the last fight,
waving a rapier like Mandrake’s wand,
constantly calling the devil upstairs.
I’ve dipped the blade in holy water, he
whispers over lunch. Then breaks breadsticks, swears
he’ll insult Beelzebub by merely
calling him Bubba. Warns he’ll wrestle him,
like St. Pio fighting at Marcone,
or Michael whacking him, winning heaven.
These films of his power, pure baloney,
the old man spews. I’ll prick his red ass soon.
He’ll flutter off like a fart-air balloon.

Roger Armbrust
March 20, 2009

NARCISSUS

Lie here with me, love, and hold close to your
eye this daffodil: sunlight’s reflection
captured in its petal, veins like ochre
rays grasping for connection—affection’s
symbol in constant reaching. Perianth
like a rippling, rising Van Dyke collar
defines all delicate flesh. Hexacanth
stigma stretches like bird talons; pallor
of lance-shaped styles dramatize each beaded
claw. Now consider how each blossom holds
toxic lycorine. Recall the myth: He’d
expire from self-obsession—uncontrolled
gazing at mirrored image blooming pride—
this flower rising up from where he died.

Roger Armbrust
March 17, 2009

HOW SHE DANCED

My sister Joan died today. Heart attack
shut down the brain, so her children turned off
the respirator. Truth is, she pushed back
from life years before, kidnapped by Smirnoff
or such poison, victim of that disease
that stalks me daily, wants me to explode
and take folks with me, sends me to my knees
praying for help. When we were young, she told
me she’d be a star. A true beauty, she
burned inside for fame and romance, could bend
crowds with wit, charm, and, oh, how she danced: free
and graceful, flowing across stage like wind
through prairie grass. Married twice. Bore a girl
and two boys who loved her. For all the world.

Roger Armbrust
March 12, 2009

REMINGTON BY NIGHT

Books praise passionate motion in sculptures,
paintings of cowboy riders and fighting
cavalry. But, oh, how his nocturnes—pure
in reflections of firelight, moonlight in
the peering wolf’s eyes and washing burnished
skin of mounted braves—create a sacred
world where we must honor stillness. He wished
near the end to conquer this vision. Said,
firelight…moonlight…difficult, to inscribe
his struggle. Felt by 1908 he’d
got it, though four years before, he’d described
in soft oil those mist-breathing, frost-backed steeds
poised in snowbright night while doorway reflects
lantern—scene to make Wyeth genuflect.

Roger Armbrust
March 9, 2009

BLURRED RAPIDS

In my dream, the small white house with oyster-
shell roof—chimney waving ghostly signal
to me—rests on emerald grass, moisture
feeding it from the wide river, ripples
and rapids blurring before me like some
dream within the dream. I’m on the other
side, gazing across fertile valley—home
from war, yet still not home—my dead brother’s
whisper urging me on: Tell them the truth,
he rasps. Don’t let them get away with it.
My jaw’s clinched so tight, I feel a weak tooth
chip, drooling out along my lips. I spit
it toward the far mountain. Hear my harsh hiss
repeat, Don’t dare let them see you like this.

Roger Armbrust
March 5, 2009

ATALYA

Her dark-earth eyes, I swear, match Mount Sahand,
its volcanic ash base—unreachable
sweet chocolate—standing mammoth and grand
outside our train window. Untouchable,
she calls herself, baptized Assyrian
Christian, inflecting in Persian because
she must. She left her parents in Tehran.
Snarls she won’t go back. Her fingernails claw
the seat’s dark-blue cloth. We’re beyond Tabriz,
closing in on Turkey’s border. When we’re
across, I strip this veil, she quickly seethes
in English. Winces. Bites her lip in fear.
Glances. Yelps a sheepish giggle and sighs.
Her mountainous eyes caress the bright sky.

Roger Armbrust
March 3, 2009