Karla Huston

LAZARUS*

Walking in Lincoln between R and 11th,
currents of summer light shifting in the breeze,
I saw a man step out from behind a hedge
next to St. Mark's Episcopal.

He emerged from between the building
with its small high windows cupped
with vines like begging hands
and the hedge, carefully squared,

and between it and the wall, the dirt
corridor where he slept. He surfaced
a step at time, growing up and out of shade,
pulling himself awake into the humid light.

I smelled him before I saw him, an odor
sweet and bitter, a mustiness of clothes
too long held in chests and closets.
His hair, a thicket of knots and half-braids,

grim ropes snarled about his dark head.
He smelled earthy, primal, disturbing.
I thought of the holy thurible swinging
on its gold rope to cense the altar,

plates of gifts and all the people, a pleasing
offering, assuring heaven to the righteous.
Earlier and on different street, I saw
a robin alight in the brush next to my path,

the fingers of her wings spread wide
and belly flat to the ground. She rooted there
settling over something I couldn't see.
The man. Had he noticed me? I worried.

Would he ask for something?
I considered what I could give, my eyes
on the mark in front of me, deciding
nothing I had would change his life much

or for long. Later that night on the way home,
I saw him again hobbling, the light in his eyes
borrowed by fireflies pulling what was left
into their small bodies.

*Previously published in The Trillium Literary Journal

Karla Huston is the author of five chapbooks of poetry, most recently, Catch and Release (Marsh River Editions, 2005). Her poems, reviews and interviews have been published in 5 A.M., Margie, North American Review, Pearl, Rattle, and others. Her website is located at www.karlahuston.com.