As If Made of Blue Legos

In inaccurate skin,
among hologram trees,
fresh from the tundra of dreams,
I hear public television say
that Jesus was trilingual.
Billie Holiday sings
the loss of plotliness,
the loss of onomatopoeiabreath.
Doris asks if I’ll touch
her titanium humerus—I do.
I go to Sheboygan to stand in
Emery Blagdon's "The Healing                                                                
Machine," which was brought in                                                                    
pieces from the Nebraska Plains.
Its coffee can klieg lights' grace                                                                       
and copper wire sculptures                                                                          
leave burns all over me.      
Death is like Russia:                                                                                        
beautiful, cold, expansive,                                                                           
expensive. Ephesus says:                                                                             
even marble turns to chalk.                                                                          
Aldebaran is nearing                                                                                 
the end of its life.                                                                                        
Jupiter and the moon are                                                                              
the closest they'll be until 2026.                                                                   
It's 25-below wind chill. Winds                                                                    
push iced piers into houses.                                                                               
My wounds smell like strawberries.                                                                 
Jim who once saw a UFO 
and was too tired to tell anyone,
who rode a tiger, and                                                                            
slept with his cornet's mouthpiece
stenciled on his lips, was a lifelong
Indiana water garden gang member,
Jim who delivered a baby
from my body, Jim, impresario
of poems, parking tickets, and
sky-blue hydrangeas, Jim who
"wore a crown of snow,"
Jim's ashes change the garden.
Who can sleep with banded
Jupiter so close to the moon?

Susan Firer, "As If Made of Blue Legos" from The Transit of Venus.  Copyright © 2016 by Susan Firer.  Reprinted by permission of The Backwaters Press.
Source: The Transit of Venus (The Backwaters Press, 2016)
More Poems by Susan Firer