By: Raymond P. Hammond
The Three Virtues
Faith
Cold steel running through my lips— 22-short
rounds pointed at my uvula, the bullets
starring at me eye-to-eye, my thumb resting,
shaking on the trigger, my crotch quivering,
afraid of being almost sixteen, the sick
smell of my mom’s salmon cakes seeping under
my locked door like poison gas in a chamber
my back against the bed, facing the window
watching dust in the beam float effortlessly
through the afternoon sun into the shadows
the shot, though, that rang through my head was music—
crystal pure musical tones intoned in me
religion is all such a convenient sin
and i belonged nowhere but right there, right then
Hope
it was a hokey dance at a marching band
competition held in bristol, virginia
they let the competing bands mingle and you,
beautiful, just standing there so i bucked-up
because i loved the song three times a lady
and i was damned determined to dance with you
i had never danced with anyone before
so your holding me close and your head resting
on my chest, my warm breath breathing in your hair
gave me a blue-burning body memory—
when triggered that day in my sun-beamed bedroom
would give me pleasure and pause and a prayer
that i could not find in any religion
i am sorry, i don’t remember your name
Charity
Could Mr. Lowe have known that each song he chose
for my high school jazz band’s musical folder
would always bring me back to those heavy days—
peg and percolator and get back —sound waves
when energized now snap me into a trance
of panic and fear and conscious remembrance
like a hypnotist’s implanted instructions,
that feeling that if i had not had music
to save me instead of religion, i would
have definitely pulled the trigger that day
in my room, my back against the bottom bunk
facing the windows when religion left me
untethered as dust in my sun-beamed bedroom,
music gave me language for something greater
Tipping the Scales
i constantly, vigilantly wait
for the other shoe of the other
side of god to drop as punishment
for any minor sin that i missed
any tiny infraction of sin
that i didn’t even know was a sin
even for a sin i knew about
confessed, prayed, begged to be forgiven
to go ahead, begin already
i need that punishment to commence
perpetual penance in silence
always uttering under my breath
god forgive me, have mercy on me
for whatever i did or didn’t do
or i might have done, or saw, or thought
from birth i was taught that each action
has its own diabolically
opposed reaction that is random,
summary, whimsical, fanciful,
demolish any good that has come
into my life, or send me to hell
where the fire burns my flesh forever
while some demon sticks a hot poker
up my ass and i start to like it
because i punish myself for good
as well as sin because after all
the act of something good happening
requires me to flop another pound
of flesh on the scalepan in order
to offset the weight of god’s finger
Raymond P. Hammond is the editor-in-chief of both The New York Quarterly and NYQ Books. He holds an MA in American Poetry from NYU's Gallatin School and is the author of Poetic Amusement, a book of literary criticism. He lives in Beacon, NY with his wife, the poet Amanda J. Bradley, and their dog Hank.