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L.G. lived in the Calkins Mansion
before it was restored
locust trees towered around it
windows were obscured by over-grown shrubs
covered with last summer’s orange berries
a skeletal mobile hung in a tree out back
another borrowed-rib creation
though L.G. never claimed to be a god
lesser or greater

he wore a broad-brim hat
perhaps with a raven’s feather
the black hat complimented
his attire and complexion
down to the boots
he seemed mysterious until we got to know him
then we were sure of it
it was a time of discovering
inherent mysteries

poetry-writing class had spawned our group
sitting in the college fish-bowl drinking coffee
we smoked earnestly
we were intense and talked about everything
about taking seemingly disparate pieces of our lives
and assembling poetry to hang and admire
L.G. suggested the group meet at his house
for Easter dinner

Easter had no special status for us
no bonnets, no hot-cross buns
we were people who had risen
long after the sunrise service
in the afternoon we ate goat
we were unconsciously retrograde pagans
it was tender and delicious
we drank red wine and coffee
and watched the cedar wax-wings
get drunk on the orange berries
and try to fly through plate-glass windows

then L.G. gave us each a card
mine was the nine of clubs
I carried it in my wallet for years
“My card,” I would say
when I showed it to people
his reading was more ambiguous than Tarot
he gave no reasons as he dealt
we made of it what we wished
though we all agreed each card given
was somehow, curiously, appropriate
like eating goat on Easter

L.G. now lives in the Southwest
if he still makes bone mobiles
the desert there must be a ready source
I lost touch with everyone
my card deteriorated in my wallet
whatever mysteries I thought I’d found
lie under layers of mundane dust
like scattered bones
like memories of Easter dinner
waiting to be re-discovered
dusted off and once more assembled mysteriously
into a semblance of life

I will hang it here