Struldbrugs
In all things,
Swift was right:
pygmies rule;
gentle giants frown--
a woman’s breast up close
terrifies;
every penis is a gun.
In nursing homes,
the old, the fat,
whine, demand
strawberry pudding,
pillows plumped
to the perfect angle.
They complain
about their kids,
the ungrateful spawn
who make money, divorce,
never visit.
And the world itself
is not the same:
the cell phone,
the internet, even
the television is to blame.
Scientists on an island
floating above a dark sea
work and find the gene
when chopped,
spliced, fired in a dish
mends every ill,
physical complaint.
Death itself is cured,
though boredom, misery,
never dies.
St. Louis Cathedral
Marie Laveau the Voodoo Queen,
was married at this altar
on a stormy day.
Pere Antoine blessed them both.
Beauregard ran from the altar rail
when he heard war drums
on Jackson Square,
never took his first communion.
DeNiro sat in the back, the Devil
with a cane, said, “There’s just
enough religion in the world
to make people hate each other.”
And at the vigil, on Saturday night, any Saturday night
the priest welcomes tourists,
spreads his arms and says:
“Welcome to New Orleans,
home of the Jester, the Hurricane,
the Hand Grenade—
drink one for me!”
William Miller's sixth collection of poetry, Recovering Biker, was published last fall by The Edwin Mellen Press. His poems have appeared in many journals, including The Southern Review, The Penn Review, Shenandoah, Prairie Schooner and West Branch. He is also the author of twelve books for children and a mystery novel. He lives and writes in the French Quarter of New Orleans.