Lamentations and Oblations Joseph Lisowski Originally published in Issue XVII of Vulgata, October 2007.

DIVISION/PRELUDE

I am Tobit.
My father is called "God is Good,"
my grandfather, "God is Merciful."
How can I not be blessed?

I have a story, even a song-it rises
like evening smoke-the crackle 
of roasted lamb turning on the spit-gentle
wind, a ticking of grains of sand
brushing cheek, forehead, tip of tongue.

My story, of course, is of family-
Of how I do and do not belong.

 
ORIGINS

When my father died, 
he left me an orphan.
I offered first fruits,
first shearings of my sheep,
firstlings of my flock
to no avail.  
The priests took my tithes, 
drank my wine, ate
my figs, pomegranates-my
brothers ate the food of heathens.
I reaped the wind.

Changes occurred. I married.
Roads became unsafe.
A new king flogged
the desert, overturning stones-
the dead had no place to rest.
I listened long to their conversations.
And then girded my loins.


EXCESS

Everywhere I turn the dead lay,
a feast for insects, vermin, 
some ignored, stiff as leather.
I return at night, shovel in hand,
wildly displace sand.
The bodies sink to a level of light
becoming dark, night.
Enough of a crypt for passage.

The king hears of my treachery,
clangs the death-knell, 
begins confiscating my land, furniture, food,
servants, clothes, precious gems, all
but my wife and son.
I flee on a manna wind
where locusts are sweet, plenty.

The king dies at the hands of his sons, 
who now scour the desert, 
looking for me
seeking solace from one
whose father has died.


 LEGACY

Patricides are forever lost.
A new king reigns-I'm 
welcomed back, reunited 
with wife and son. 

At the feast of weeks, 
fifty days from Passover,
I am feted with sweetest meats,
wine, bread, fruits.
I send my son to find a poor man,
someone to share our wealth.
He returns alarmed-"Father, one 
of our people has been murdered.  
He lies in the marketplace
where he had been strangled."

I rush out, gather the body,
take him home, to my room
to wait for night and burial.
I wash and with sadness return to 
the empty banquet hall.
I think of the prophet Amos, widely heralded
As the prophet of love who said,
"Your festivals shall be turned into mourning
and all your songs into lamentation."

My son is gone.
I weep.  At sunset, I will go out
and dig a grave, bury my guest.


 SLEEP OF THE JUST

"What is wrong with you!" my neighbors
complain.  "For this, you were hunted down,
almost executed.  For this you escaped?
To bury the dead again?"

It is hot. I am tired.
What is done is done.
I doze, my face uncovered.

I wake easy from a sleep of the just,
my eyes heavy, I think, with sand.
No, my wife says.  Bird droppings have 
Filled my eyes.  She takes me 
to doctors.  Their salves
seal my vision.  My kinsmen
stay a while, but then none remain.

My wife goes out looking for work.

 
WOMAN'S WORK

My wife weaves, the kind of work
women do.  The owners
are always pleased; they pay
well, more than feels right.

One night she brings
a young goat back with her.
"Return this," I demand.  "Why
are you now a thief!"
"A bonus, a bonus!" she insists.

A bone, a bone is what I hear.
And with this I must contend.
"See, Your true character
is finally showing itself!" she screams.


LIKE A PEACOCK

I hate this life,
the parts I play,
now begging God
with praise to do my bidding, 
to take away my life
or the insults of  others.

How dumb do I think he is?
my sincerity sweet
As undigested cud.
How dumb does he think
I am to pray so transparently?

When I lost sight,
I lost vision.
Courage, too.
Shamelessly, I preen
like a peacock, flaunting
my humility.


THE FOLLY OF PRIVILEGE

I am a rich man,
treasured in another country.
I have hidden wealth
that my son must retrieve.

He must hire a guide-his spirit
is young, judgment not quite
of a piece-a man tested, unbroken,
a true kinsman, loyal friend
to love not money.
Who but an angel?

It must be "God who heals."


GOOD FORTUNE

Raphael broods like high mountain fire,
licks grass, sticks, embers to rise
merely a tenth of an inch,
the precise distance between heaven and earth.
Barely enough to ignite imagination.  

He agrees to serve Tobiah, luckless son
Of a blind prophet born of shadows, snakes.


AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT

A boy, his dog leave home. 
An angel follows.
At nightfall they make camp
at the dark, roiling Tigris River.
There the boy washes his feet.
 
A large fish leaps,
tries to swallow his foot.
“Quick!” the angel orders,
“seize the fish, cut it open. 
The gall, heart, and liver—
This is your treasure.”

The boy does as bid.  
"But why?" he asks.
“Never mind,” the angel retorts.
“But please,” the boy pleads.
No sound but the river slapping rocks.

"Burn heart and liver” the angel says at last.
“Its smoke purges demons.
Gall, when rubbed on eyes of the blind, 
restores sight.  Believe and obey.  

Trust and obey."

 
A MATTER OF HOPE
 
The boy marries a girl
But not her secrets.

First marriages are always
a matter of  hope. 
Hers is a lovely story,
left for another time.
 
They dream a world,
charmed, blessed,
where they always follow 
good advice, respect
elders and angels.
 
It is an easy way.
Great wealth will surely come.
He will not turn away.
Darkness has no appeal.
And women are nothing to fear.
In this dream, he enters her arms
And does not die.


UNKNOWN HEART-ACHE

It's a dream world,
fancy fed, love directed,
if the boy charmed, blessed,
follows good advice, respects
elders and angels.

It is easy for him to obey.
Great wealth, ease is promised.
He is not tempted to turn away.
Darkness has no appeal. 
Death holds no beguiling veil,
which he is driven to lift.

And women are nothing to fear.


AT END, A BEGINNING

He enters her arms
And does not die.
Earlier, he prepared a spell
to cast out her death demon.
His life in balance, no tremors,
no fears, he believes himself safe.
And so he is.

A boy who lives by faith
or one that gives little thought?
Perhaps he is the son
as imagined by the father-
easy, ready, unable to break.