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/.