2 poems

by Claire Gunner

an altar

This afternoon my mother bisque fired then glazed and fired again

an altar, ready for someone’s incense, prayer candle, fetish. 

I always take the object of worship for the thing that conveys it–

the queen for the sedan, the golden calf for the desert.

For the longest time I thought the tabernacle was a microwave,

that other purifying fire:

nuke my body for two and a half minutes at fifty percent power.

Now my body has hot spots. Ready for redemption.

Eat it.

On my mother’s glazed altar I place a wedge of clay, 

a tobacco tin filled with sewing needles, four wooden spoons.

I turn my back.

accidental renaissance

On Thursday, I sat in the middle-left

as the 102 bus slowed at 96th Street.

I watched a hatted figure, jacket-clad

(not on the 102 bus)

cross the February street in front of traffic

extend his hand, palm up, fingers forward

and graze its emblazoned side panel

as if he were God, or Adam

as if he were not of this world

but becoming it.

Claire Gunner lives in Brooklyn with her husband and two cats. She works as a staff attorney for a legal services nonprofit in New York City. Her work appears in The Cardiff Review and Paddler Press.