The lost tribes, part 7
By Patrick T. Reardon
You and I lose the race, straining or loafing,
sinews ripping or flabbing.
The clock.
Each touch passes, ignorant before Cosmos.
Game of dead ends.
You and I lose, choosing the road well-traveled,
less-traveled, or standing still.
Celebrate.
Stars pull, galaxies stretch, slivers of dust in sun.
I am grit.
You and I lose, no matter the covenant.
Invisible gravity wins, wear and tear, flesh physics.
You and I can hold hands. Yes, we can,
before Gestapo,
before nuclear,
before high noon,
with or without insurance,
in the hospital room, at the end.
You and I, ripped apart by all that is seen and unseen.
Listen: the scratch of eternity behind the storm.
You and I face the blank white alone.
Vouchsafe me a vision
in my isolation.
I have lost my way
in the great blank white.
Ashes.
Patrick T. Reardon
10.1.24
This poem originally appeared in Meat for Tea. It is the final section of the seven-part poem The Lost Tribes, a chapbook published by Grey Book Press in 2022.
Written by : Patrick T. Reardon
For more than three decades Patrick T. Reardon was an urban affairs writer, a feature writer, a columnist, and an editor for the Chicago Tribune. In 2000 he was one of a team of 50 staff members who won a Pulitzer Prize for explanatory reporting. Now a freelance writer and poet, he has contributed chapters to several books and is the author of Faith Stripped to Its Essence. His website is https://patricktreardon.com/.