James Thomas Hazard
“This
vein here,” the specialist said,
Tapping
the upturned side of my arm
“Very
good. When kidneys fail
Say
that this is for dialysis”
That or
lethal injection, I think
Of
mines and shafts and veins of silver,
Sunken
rock and sticks of powder,
The
rubble of beavers with crew cuts and sunglasses
Digging
at the last precious vein
In the
ruins of roots, nests, dens
And
fallen trees to rot and feast on
Land is
leveled, smoothed, paved and piped
The
alchemist’s art of metallurgy
For the
transfiguration of ore to frame,
Tin
roofs in the sun where the shade of mountains stood
Twinkle
in the warm October sun,
Thin
shelter for winter storms
That
brew in test tubes filled with blood
From a
long, translucent vein
I tap
Tap tap
And
hear a tapping at the door
As if
reply had come to question
Who is
tapping at my door?
“Go
away and come no more,”
I’d
like to say so close to Halloween
But
can’t, of course
Since
afternoons are reserved for reason
Neighbors
keep their doors ajar
A
welcome mat for the dispossessed
“This
was my house,” the old woman said
Wandering
through our rooms like a ghost
While I
go next door to tell her son
Where
his missing mother is
Long
tubular chimes
Lengthen
the sound of the wind
In
ripples of bell-tone brass
That
ring as man and mother
Start
their journey home
Coming
storms the wind chimes warn
Tap and
warn tap and warn
You must remember this vein here