I sit far from the altar for
fear, give myself distance,
breathing room, unworthy
and aloof.
Angels tumble into
the abyss.
Leave town, mystic,
leave home, leave here,
vision no more. The word.
Heat of the day, lust heat,
heat work, red heat, body heat.
Known
before the start of the start,
known
before and after and into and
above and below and through.
Nothing on the journey but
a walking stick. Balance of
the planets. Carrying my
burden, dragging my
homeless bags, plastic as my
hopes, incorruptible.
Stranger manger.
Song of the servant, feet
washed, hair combed, face
wiped of sweat. Soft
thunder, heavy rain.
Hosanna, alleluia. Consecration
at the height of storm,
transubstantiation as the sky
flashes and the air thickens and
the throat thickens — breath,
breath, mere breath.
Vain of heart, vainful, vainglorious.
Sign of peace.
Three questions, seven answers
spoken in the forest.
Nothing left, nothing lost, eat
and be filled, take and eat
the mystery. Breathe out and in.
ABOUT:
Patrick T. Reardon, who was a Chicago Tribune reporter for 32 years, has published six poetry collections, including Darkness on the Face of the Deep and Puddin’: The Autobiography of a Baby, A Memoir in Prose Poems. His next collection Every Marred Thing: A Time in America, the winner of the 2024 Faulkner-Wisdom Prize from the Pirate’s Alley Faulkner Society of New Orleans, is forthcoming from Lavender Ink. He has been nominated four times for a Pushcart Prize. Follow on him Instagram and Facebook @patrick.t.reardon, or Twitter: @PatrickReardon.
EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING: tim sketches — Plastic Bags
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