He tells her he’s doing all right.
interlude
Lorenzo, though I’m guessing,
had his trials before turning great,
I will never be great,
my brother will never be great,
buried and forgotten,
and for being stabbed the Pazzi
conspirators were drowned, hanged,
their accounts wiped from the earth,
though I’m guessing, and, so, wounded
Lorenzo rose and watched
closely for puss in the wound,
maybe saw poetry in the scar.
And what was it they said, Michelangelo,
this Lorenzo as the sun crossed,
crawling behind the morning tree branches
and those feathers flitting
that must have been there too
maybe:
Lorenzo: Today, Buonarroti, how do you?
Michelangelo: Oggi non moriranno di fame, mio ??signore.
and so news came that a famous
singer, man or woman, had died, faith saying
she or he was a famous singer, actuality answering
she or he was just a child, a young woman or man
with a frailness for wine and pills
and with a father and mother who loved her or him,
faith saying get on the stage
as you’re a star, actuality knowing
she or he sat on the toilet weeping,
and used paper for cleaning,
which is never told of in poetry.
and so the world will end with the last golden frog
withering in the sun
and the man or woman behind the camera will
snap it and say: I snapped
a photo of the last golden frog, huzzah,
by faith I say
and future faithfuls will say:
I believe it and I believe it
and I believe it, too,
these beauties in which we believe
natures cruelty resided,
and so we’re wonderful,
and actually will come
in its rags
and say
it’s a photo of the last golden frog,
fool, and no more will ever rise
in the night and make it sing.
in what do you believe?
Why didn’t the man behind
the camera move stones
grow fronds
pour waters
and give the frog a life,
the singer a hand
out of her or his abyss
and maybe, just maybe,
with real courage
the woman would say:
take your picture now, fool,
of me, waking
to the morning sun,
and maybe, just maybe
today, we will not starve.
