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Sharon Cumberland

"My poems are both funny and spiritual--how's that for a combination?"

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Sharon Cumberland

KYRIE PANTOKRATOR

By Sharon Cumberland

The world was not for me, but for my brothers,

the horses, the science kits, the classrooms,

the rough training for the world, which was not

for me, but for my husbands, the work, the money,

the camaraderie over drinks and waitresses, which

was not for me but for my fathers, the wives, the tidy

homes and waiting children, the warm bed,

which was not for me.

            I beat the chest of my soul.

The clear path was not for me but for the scions,

the boys of promise and grace, their football fields,

the locker room and all its promises, which was not

for me but for the scholars, their tutors, the books

and allowances, the mighty potential, which

was not for me but for the junior partners,

their swaddles of opportunity, the slap on the back,

which was not for me.

            I bite the tongue of my mind.

The audience was not for me but for the speakers,

their podiums and printing presses, the bull horns which

were not for me but for the soldiers, their flags and taxes,

the guns and petroleum, their certainty of righteousness

which was not for me but for the kings, the popes, the presidents,

their parades and treasure, their chest of ribbons,

which was not for me.

            I brandish the fist of my bowels.

The Church was not for me but for the Adams,

the ones who look like You in their secret bodies,

like the Father and the suffering Son in his ribs

and rags, which were not for me but for the saints,

their faith and miracles. Only the martyrs,

their persecutions, their resistance, the hopes

of forgiveness for their jealousy, their cowardice,

their despair, Pantokrator, are for me.

            I bend the knee of my heart.

MY HOUSEMATE BOWS A THOUSAND TIMES

By Sharon Cumberland

                                    for Geun-Ae Park

It’s what they do at her Korean temple

when something is amiss with the spirit:

kneel, bend head to rug,

lift hands palms up

then stand again,

like a river flowing backward,

before falling forward once more

on your knees

in a smooth wave.

She will do this a thousand times

to expiate the anger in her breast

at her professor, who makes her work

long hours in the laboratory

who shouts at her,

takes credit for her research—the man

she tries not to hate.

If she bows a thousand times

he will shrink in the waves of worship

that wash her soul.

It takes twelve hours

to bow away the man

who tries to bend her

to his will.

BEFORE

By Sharon Cumberland

Walk nude through the house,
holding a breast in each hand,
feeling their liquid weight shift
as you walk; feeling, 
as you lift them up, 
that you are young again,
that they are at once your children
and yourself; knowing
that these companions rise and fall
in solidarity with you; that you
may have to give them up
one by one
to save yourself;
that they will be sacrificed,
these flowing solids,
these kissing stations,
these secret reservoirs,
for you; knowing
that you will keen for them
as for lost children, feel the guilty
weight of blood money.
Walk naked through the house, 
hold them now as you might cherish
your old parents,
your memories of youth:
ask forgiveness, be reconciled, 
before they go.

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