Poem: Here I Am

Here I am

Patrick T. Reardon

 

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 26^th 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

7.1.26

 

This poem originally appeared at Amethyst Review on 6.20.26.