hot breath on hot rocks

angelic psychotherapy

On Angels, & Death
after Donald Barthelme

“The death of God left the angels in a strange position.”

Without a God to adore, what are Angels for?
Eternal lamentation was proposed instead –
nostalgic silence over ceaseless Glorias.
Or perhaps they could confirm chaos in God-death?
Dignified refusal-to-be was refused outright.

Angels tried to adore each other, like Man, but
it was “not enough”. They made T.V. appeals
for purpose, permanence. But grieving much like Man,
Angels are often longsighted, so sing on, wordless,
fearful their notes might scatter like seeds in breeze.


© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010

cradles & civilisation

Abacus

In the classroom veneered tabletops,
showing repeated waves of grain,
support paint, paper, an abacus.

The crossbeams like blinds
secured by primary colours,
the abacus filters sums.

A slow game of marbles
that you cannot play.
They are abacus beads.

You learn about Richard of York,
threaded spheres of blue, red, yellow.
Abacus, fractured rainbow.

Moulded paint pastels
strung on cool wire, but
you can only paint numbers.

Counting in discreet units,
the abacus will never blur
like the paints in the water jar.

Cold metal swings through my fingers
as I teach tens and units,
while you sing marbles.

My baby plays with her abacus,
symbol of mathematics,
shaking to my song,

while the abacus counts
the years from childhood,
without an hourglass’s inevitability.


© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010