To the Gods of the Market
If there's no invisible hand,
then this market must be driven by prayer.
That it could be up to chance is unthinkable
(or, worse yet, in someone else's hands),
so superstition comes winging in,
like a murderous flock of crows.
(Thus: as when a crow settles high on a limb,
perched where it watches a motionless deer
which has fallen, unnoticed by hunter and foe;
there on another branch settles another,
and, one by one, corvidae blacken the trees
as they wait . . . )
And so we offer hecatombs,
rich thighbones wrapped in shining fat,
libations of ink across our students’ exams,
and, just in case, offerings of corn, of tofu,
of vegetable gnocchi.
Who knows about gods, these days?

Previous Poem | Back to Table of Contents | Next Poem