Poem: Let in

Let in

 

Patrick T. Reardon

 

Let Emmanuel in the door,

like Elijah, like a cold wind, like the

gray mouse seeking warmth, the shoo-fly

in random flight, a random memory, a

gesture offhand, hands over head in

dance, in other circumstances, hands

out to embrace, grab, ward off, a ward

of the state, the state of play, an

open state —

 

let Emmanuel in,

like a glimmer of something at the edge,

the gasp of something at the end, hate

uncopied, cruelty endured, durable

marble worn by faithful feet, durable

walls around a juvenile city, full of vigor

and vim, boostered like a box of Lux soap

flakes, blind to its own heartbeat —

 

let in,

like pine scent and needles, like holidays

unfilled, half-finished like a puzzle with

pieces from another box, like a found key,

like a dash of salt in the pot, the weary

shrug of neutrality, those (all of us) sitting

together at the sinners table, like coming

into focus, like noises ringing true.

 

Let Jack of Lent in the door,

like a worm but no man, like a bluebottle

on alabaster, thick unto death, like a

nameless voyage to a shallow city, like the

wren of victory, like a stone cracked open

to the unfluid within —

 

let Jack of Lent in,

like a station of a frivolous cross, like a

coonskin cap odor, like ordure Job-sat,

Job-shat, like sleepless ones, circus

factions, the hall of 23 couches, the

heavenly halls, giddy beatitude,

poor-sinner’s porch, like a bust of red

porphyry, purple red, hard as the earth’s

core and wiser than the Lady Wisdom,

like bright sun beyond the Hamm’s sign —

 

let in,

like light duty, like beam of light, like

bean counting, like the Just One in the

tilted stained-glass in summer heat at

afternoon funeral and, outside, the

endless greens of the tree in sun and

caring shadow, like the undertaken and

the undertaking, the taking of names and

the naming of monsters and rivers and

oysters, like the cut off ear, like the

Temple servant’s question, like the

stigma of barrenness.

 

Let One-Cent in the door,

like flames of spice, perfumed blaze, fed

by seeds, fruits, roots and barks, herbs

and flavors and garnish, like rope-necked

maids in a row, like the maid burned at the

post for visioning voices, like the woman’s

voice singing “Surrey with the Fringe on Top,”

like the black Christmas rose with dark

leathery leaves, like anger at the hole of

breathing, the insufficiency of bald reason,

the wordlessness of agony —

 

let One-Cent in,

like the alley horse clopping a psalm, like

jade girls with bound feet, like the house

of multitudes, the house of prostitutes, the

International House of Pancakes, like the

joyful precincts of an empty city, the gnat

in the white wine, like private liturgy,

owned scripture, monetized belief, like the

ghetto blizzard, the black bird of morning,

like Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, like Abraham,

Martin and John —

 

let in,

like the joker rat pioneering through ash,

cinders, soil to the garage floor cement

crack and another route to anywhere, like

unknown words said, like wide panic,

cloistered functions, ruins read, gaps

toted, the sum of all fears, birdsong

translations and bad blood, like a hot gust,

like spirit and dust conversing, like cosmic

grit and every breath a flame and every woe

a joy, like all shall be well, like a cure for

insanity, melancholy, gout and epilepsy, like

anger at the existence of pain, like GirlJane

who wrote “Mad at the World” for the

Beautiful Desert album and Jacoba who

bottled her pain to an ugly vintage.

 

Patrick T. Reardon

8.1.25

 

 

This poem was originally published in Timberline Review on 8.1.25.