Alfred Corn(b. 1943)
Navidad, St. Nicholas Ave.
John and Stuart brought their pictures round,
A travelling exhibition. Dying,
She thumbed down some, nodded at others,
An artist and curator to the last,
Honesty at all costs. She drew up lists,
Bequests, gave things away. It tore my heart out.
Her friends assisted at this tidying
In a conspiracy of women.
At night, I lay beside her in the unique hours.
There were mysteries in candle-shadows,
Birds, aeroplanes, the rabbits of our fingers,
The lovely, erotic flame of the candlelight.
Sad Yes. But it was beautiful also.
There was a stillness in the world. Time was out
Walking his dog by the low walls and privet.hedge
There was anonymity in words and music.
She wanted me to wear her wedding ring.
It wouldn't fit even my little finger.
It jammed on the knuckle. I knew why.
Her fingers dwindled and her rings slipped off.
After the funeral, I had them to tea and sherry
At the Newland Park. They said it was thoughtful.
I thought it was ironic—one last time—
A mad reprisal for their loyalty.
ALFRED CRN
b. 1943
Navidad, St. Nicholas Ave.1
An infant quirk of a pine
with aerosol frosting, spangles,
and bulbs that blink red-blue-gold.
Manolito, three days home, they've put
in his picket-fence crib,
paper diaper cinched tight,
eyes squinted in a mask
that looks Chinese or in pain.
Asleep. Trailing sighs and smiles
they tiptoe out to where the Magnavox
screen extolls some producto2
whose logo's a crystal star.
She glances up at the window
brimming with sodium light.
And, mira, snow begins to fall
like manna3 in the warming air
as from down the avenue a taxi
beeps a brass triad. Then an offended
wail summons mother, father,
todo el mundo4 back to his side.