The ubiquitous Mildred Jukes—there at the library and there at church—there, pointing to Max in Where the Wild Things Are and there, on a narthex folding chair—a veritable avatar of fertility,
or was it sterility?—she, with her dark-rimmed glasses, slashes her way into memory.
It’s been fifty years, Mrs. Jukes, since the Bosom of Abraham story
branded me, in one venue, a gender-confused child… And by what authority
did you help the cross-legged, latch-key kids feel safe at your feet?
I couldn’t say a word, being bottle-fed the formula of the late sixties myself. But could a bomb-shelter really function as the areola?
According to gospel accounts, a Lazarus (totally different than the one Jesus raised) went there and uttered that fragment
of the Pledge of Allegiance:
… under God… under God… under God… And then—
as the Sacred Scriptures and Constitution are wont to do— the literal text tore a giant, yawning chasm between
the poor slob and that infamous, rich guy with the winning temperament… Of course, never mind the height, nor depth nor breadth of sod, rolled out like orange carpet,
and today cushioning your grave. Never mind
the veranda-party serving the best mint-julep cocktails, those making us forget the plague of oozing boils.
He turns on the sprinklers—although things are pretty well
watered down already—
at Memorial Gardens. Your plot thickens, Mildred (if I can call you Mildred)
and the droplets landing upon your stone can’t evaporate fast enough: I connect their fading moisture like dots
on the Shroud of Turin. Jesus? I’m just now making out the withered beard, plucked like the cliche says—and just now, this shit-storm comes into stark focus on the old Sunday School pamphlet. Yes, there’s proof! Proof of
a Palestinian Jew and his image, being pranked for all time.
Is this breaking news? (No wonder Hitler painted flowers without a single shadow.) The rest of us accomplices always inoculate ourselves with cleavage—to hell with the light!
