READING THOMAS KEATING THINKING
OF MY WIFE, DURING THE LATE ANTHROPOCENE AGE
IN WHICH WE LIVE
EVEN BEFORE IT IS NAMED
“…one should give the situation a quiet welcome.”
—The History
of Contemplative Prayer, Thomas Keating
Waking early, my practice,
I brew two cups of Arabica beans,
grinding them myself, filling the kitchen
with smells of rich volcanic soil from El Salvador.
I pour myself a bowl of Grape Nuts,
fresh and crunchy enough between the teeth,
even my grandson favors them.
My friends have heard. They know me
by the way I praise American cereal.
Blueberries, a big fistful each morning
over the top of Grape Nuts. Blueberries,
cousin of the North Dakota Juneberry,
ridding my body of toxins, daily.
But this morning I remember
the last of them
mixed with yogurt for last night’s dessert.
My wife doesn’t need blueberries.
I need them. I always eat blueberries.
My wife doesn’t need interior prayer,
she is one. Frozen blueberries
over Grape Nuts. Early. That simple.
A big handful. Fat-free milk
turned pastel blue during their consumption.
How could I have been so careless?
No stains on my unstained hands.
No blues to lick from my fingers.
Sweet milk shared with my old retriever gone sour.
Quiet time itself gone surly.
No sacred word this morning.
Poetry in free fall.
Deep silence fills with noise.
Empty bowl self-served.
Jim Bodeen
24 May 2014
TWICE TODAY
God has left me.
Twice.
Desolate, I picked weeds
from rocks
by the side of the road.
No dummy, me.
I said to myself,
Leave some of these
for later.
He’ll leave me again.
He will.
Jim Bodeen
23 May 2014
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