How it went

By Patrick T. Reardon


It was Amen.  Finger in the

dish.  Bread, broken.  Cup,

given.  Blood, flesh.


The wind was not empty.  The angel knew the score.


The kiss, the sword, the healing in torch



Testimony.  The right hand and the torn robe. 

Deny, deny, deny — the rooster.



Silver planted in the Field of Blood.

Tree grown in the Skull Place.


They feared a riot. She feared a dream.

He couldn’t see the point so he put his hands in the dish.


Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani.


Was that

the still

small itch

of a sound

that Elijah

heard as

I let go?


Patrick T. Reardon



This poem was originally published by Calla Press on 3.10.22

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

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