Worry stole the kayaks and soured the milk. Now, it’s jellyfish for the rest of the summer and the ozone layer full of holes. Worry beats me to the phone. Worry beats me to the kitchen, and all the food is sorry. Worry calcifies my ears against music; it stoppers my nose against barbecue. All films end badly. Paintings taunt with their smug convictions. In the dark, Worry wraps her long legs around me, promises to be mine forever. Thugs hijacked all the good parking spaces. There’s never a good time for lunch. And why, my mother asks, must you track beach sand into the apartment? No, don’t bother with books, not reading much these days. And who wants to walk the boardwalk anyway, with scam artists who steal your home and savings? Watch out for talk that sounds too good to be true. You, she says pointing at me, don’t worry so much.
Angel Supporting St. Sebastian
Shot with arrows and left for dead, against the angel's leg, Sebastian sinks. In time, he'll become the patron saint of athletes and bookbinders. But for now, who wouldn't want to be delivered into the sculpted arms of this seraph, his heavenly shoulders and biceps? The artist understood the swoon of doctrine, its fundamental musculature, and the human need to lean against the lusty form, accept the discourse that assigns to each of us a winged guardian whispering into our ringing ears.