1. 

Revelation came to you on a September day,

not on top of a barren mountain but in the chemistry lab

during the last class period when you were starving,

when, after Hamlet’s monologue and equations with two

     unknowns,

it became clear there was nothing more to learn. 

 

“Human beings are simply made of water and carbon,” he

     declared,

and drew a long formula with many holes on the chalkboard

that looked like a metal trap for rabbits.

He was the messenger, St. John the Chemistry Teacher,

drenched in sweat, his belt buckled tight. 

Face cleanly shaved, hair trimmed and parted flat with Figaro

     oil . . .

 

Wasn’t he supposed to look a little more miserable?

Wasn’t he supposed to have a long beard?

Wasn’t a bush nearby supposed to have burst into flames?

 

“Simply water and carbon!

Maybe even a little magnesium, nitrogen, calcium, and

     phosphorus . . .

In short, little choice involved.”

And he chucked the chalk into the air

as if a key to a door without hinges.

He clasped his hands. Mission accomplished!

The last words already spoken.

Now disperse and spread the good news!

Or go to hell—who cares! 

 

A bitter relief in the air, the scent of freshly cut grass.

Suddenly, we no longer knew who we were;

suddenly we were all the same. 

 

So why the eternal worry on my mother’s face?

And what sort of chemical compounds

were Adler and Schopenhauer talking about in the other

     classroom

from which only a thin wall separated us

or was it an entire existence?