The Gift

Once in a dream an apostle fed you mandrake, but it was poison after all, not the panacea where you emerge into sunlight, clouds accumulating, as one imagines speaking Latin in ancient libraries. You reach for your cashmere whisper while song notes cluster like cherries on a clef and statues of the Virgin weep. And you bowl. The ball curves into the pocket for strike after strike: the pins scatter like seagulls. The concourse erupts in ovation. You stick one hand out to await the pit-a-pat of rain as lightning cracks the sky and clouds boom, your one pure note hovering like an eagle. You are speaking languages with scholars. They say: He hears pins dripping like water. But even deaf boys of thirty, with rusty locks and scrubbed faces, know that bedtime can come before the gift’s unwrapped. As surely as the moment comes, it goes: you are poised on the approach, the ball a hundred pounds. Then the arm sways back and the missile’s launched. Your guidance system is intact. Therein lies your gift: Your resilience is a wild herb. Science cannot let you hear your voice, but across your mind scape morning creeps its siren wail. You strike again. And again. And again. Your heart beats and gulls scatter.