some older poems, revised

A woman read one of my poems for the devotion at a church meeting last night (which makes me terribly proud, self-conscious, and slightly mortified all at the same time), and it prodded me to do some more revision work on some older poems from that series (old here is about two years, by the way).  Thus, here are some I worked on today.  Thanks for reading.

That Kind of Customer (original)

We order hope like it’s a ham
and cheese sandwich, only toasted whole
wheat, no lettuce
and light on the mayo. In difficult
situations we try to order off
menu, create a cuisine
that will comfort us, that will provide all
the sustenance we think we need
or deserve, while taking away
from the tip for every misstep, as if God
were a server
and short-order cook combined,
when he actually meets us at the door,
hands us a hairnet and a handful
of recipes, then points
us to the kitchen.

That Kind of Customer (revision)

We order hope like a ham
and cheese sandwich, only
on toasted whole
wheat, no lettuce, light

on the mayo. We try
to order off menu, create
a cuisine of comfort—meatloaf
and macaroni and cheese—
so heavy we want to sleep

until the next meal. For
every misstep, we take
away from the tip, as if
God were a server and

short-order cook combined,
when he actually meets us
at the door, hands us a hairnet
and a handful of recipes,
points us to the kitchen.

Animal Husbandry (original)

In the early winter, we speak of peace
so often it seems we are Miss America

on message or some Salvation
Army Santa Claus outside

the supermarket, yet we put peace
off, as if it were a chore, like cleaning

out the closet or emptying
the recycling; we push peace
to some unforeseeable future, pass it along

to some savior who will deliver it
to our table, as if it is cream for the coffee we ordered
for dessert, as if the lamb and lion will lie down

with one another
without any work

from us to help them make
the transition, as if we had the words

to say to them,
to tell them
what they need
to know, at least not yet.

Animal Husbandry (revision)

In early winter, we speak of peace
so often it seems we are Miss America

on message or some Salvation
Army Santa Claus outside

the supermarket, yet we put peace
off, as if a chore, like cleaning

out the closet, emptying
the recycling; we push peace

to some unforeseeable future, pass it along
to some savior who will deliver it

to our table, as if cream for the coffee we ordered
for dessert, as if the lamb and lion will lie down

with one another without any work
from us to help them make

the transition, as if we had the words
to say to them, to tell them what they need
to know, as if one word were all they needed.

Fleurs d’Espoir (original)

When we remember the cactus
that bloomed when it could not remember

rain or the gentians that grow from the frost
of the far side
of the mountain, we must speak hope

into existence, speak the word
into the world, rolling the o

in our mouths as if it contained the sweetness
of a kiss, letting the oh break forth

from our souls, letting the softness
of the sound sneak into the hardness
of our hearts, breaking apart brothers

who bicker, then binding them
again in the belief
that flowers can flourish

for at least a day, even in the driest desert,
even in the darkest
corner of our hearts, even
in the empty words we share.

Fleurs d’Espoir (revision)

In between eyewitness accounts
of war and tales of theft and murder
and mistrust, we read of a cactus
that bloomed when it could not remember

rain and gentians that grow from the frost
of the far side
of the mountain, and so we speak hope

into existence, rolling the o
in our mouths as if it contained the sweetness
of a kiss, let the oh break forth
from our souls, the softness

of the sound sneaking into the hardness
of our hearts, breaking apart brothers
who bicker, then binding them
again in the belief

that flowers can flourish
for at least a day, even in the driest desert,
even in the darkest corner

of our hearts, even in the empty
words we write.