The flying, drug-drinking, long-haired sage
Of the Rig Veda had been replaced by body,
The hobbling, abstemious, close-cropped
Fool fond of Legba. At the petrol station
Cornering the rural highway and the village,
Hand-lettered poster boards advertised
Various meats, halibut from the coast, trout
More local, bacon from down the road,
And a new item for this summer, Hutterite
Chickens from somewhere in the province.
All good gifts for hungry omnivores,
And the greater world, the whole, is one.
Body cruised by thinking of the water,
Of what gifts gods and intercessors prefer,
At least according to their worshippers
Anxious to keep the best cuts themselves
But not to lose favor with fate or magic,
Tobacco or soma, a little cornmeal, bones.
There will be no flying in this religion, self
Thought within body. There were men
Getting a motorboat ready to take out
After winter under wraps. Parents watched
Children scuff a dandelion-infested pitch
With their soccer cleats. Clouds packed
In tight for a look, silver vultures, at body
Teetering down to the shore on two sticks,
Determined for breathtaking submersion and
Requesting an open gate. No flying
Anymore, not in this world. Floating.
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