Here I am
Precious ointment, good name.
Day of death is true north. Day of birth is first step.
Feast when possible, mourn always, knowing the future.
The soul-sofa franchise of John of Lent advertises:
Rest your weary spirit-bones, calm the joints and sinews
of your ghosts. Calling all souls, flesh below flesh.
Here I am.
At the gate, Lucy sits in wisdom, watches the coming
and going. Her eyes are lines to life, blind to foolish
offerings.
A start is hope. An end is knowledge. Patience is
better than pride. Anger, a sweet trap.
One-Cent carries the bones of Uncle Eddie into the new
covenant land, fresh designated as real estate, no
longer wilderness, now profitable.
Find the straight inside the crooked. Ponder adversity
like a sacred book. Consider the comfort of the rich and
study closely the balance of weights.
The house of many angles — the cop crowd in the park,
a wall of helmet threat. GirlJane is surrounded by a great
cloud of witnesses, saints and angels, chanting:
Persevere in the race to be run.
The breaking of dry leaves, the crackling of human breath.
House of fools is next door to the wise house. Listen to
the words of Wisdom, deep and full. Hear the foolish song
for what it is. Laugh and go your way.
Here I am.
In the mirror, Long John Oremus sees his six eyes, six ears,
an idol’s visage. Flame fires from his mouth. He sees
every thing, hears every thing until he turns away from
the silver. His unrepentant serpent mother, alive in death,
still rules the side ways of his low brain. The high flies
only as far as the chain.
Hambone steals the unwatched minute from the mother
to write this, guilty beyond the walled siege-proof shtetl.
Beyond here lies every thing.
Skin and sorrow discolor and dry like desert.
They say Denmark Jones should be thrown out into the
darkness. They throw him down a deep well with no
water and only mud. He sinks in the mud. At 26th and
California, his case is pleaded.
Embrace no curse. Good or bad, breathe until not. Good
or bad, face what is. Child of the Century walks in a sea of
myth; he sings a tuneless song about the artist of history.
Take hold. Listen to the death bed visitor about to journey.
Hug hospice angels. Keep quiet.
Here I am.
Lincoln Scarlet avoids the one with heart of nettles.
Patrick T. Reardon, a Chicago Tribune reporter from 1976 to 2009, is the author of seven poetry collections. His latest is 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 (Lavender Ink). He is a six-time nominee in poetry for a Pushcart Prize. His poetry has appeared in America, RHINO, Commonweal, Blue Unicorn, After Hours, Autumn Sky, Burningword Literary Journal and other journals.
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