Altar

By Patrick T. Reardon

 

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.

 

 

Patrick T. Reardon

12.12.24

 

This poem originally appeared at Dipity Literary Magazine on 11.20.23.

 

 

 

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/.

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