You, Whom I Have Named
You, whom I have named static between radio stations -
I heard You in the morning humdrum
[7:53 A.M. middling 94.3 FM and 95.1 FM],
the peach fuzz of signal searching,
each buzz before a noise noses in.
Sentimentally, I always let the dial dillydally there like
an offering to You: my attention with no demand for
Your intention.
You, whom I have named a rose in the pavement -
it was surely You, emerging from concrete cracks,
red and green against a sea of rusted grey,
form conquering over function, a kind of alleycat angel.
I watered it once, as
an offering to You: my outpouring, for a singular gift of beauty.
You, whom I have named the summer light after streetlamps -
that slate-sea hour when the sky is a swirling seascape.
I throw my wrists out to west and east, fingers unwrapped,
calling in the wind, calling at the windows, at all times
an offering to You: seeing salvation in the lingering light,
faded but never faded away.
You, whom I have named a man in a novelty t-shirt on Victoria Beach, June 2026,
I mean it, because if cotton can curl my mug into a meaty smile,
it is an affirmation that an aliveness courses through this conduit
and it does not ask for blessing,
and no high and holy miracle ever did.
And so even that paltry moment of giggling is
an offering to You: my laughter, measured out in dad jokes
on sand-scratched shirts.
You, whom I have named nothing at all
because all that I can say of You falls short,
and everything is nothing in full colours,
and You left a porch light on for me,
in case I want to come in to experience
how wonderful nothing ever is. So, here,
an offering to You: my feet on the porch
steps, I will leave the light on for the others.
Magnus Briar is a poet from Winnipeg, Canada. Their first poetry collection, Prairie Chicken, appeared on several Amazon bestseller lists. They have performed their original poetry at festivals across the region.
