Mount of Olives
Patrick T. Reardon
On the dark Mount of
Olives, in a rain-jeweled
copse above the garden,
I removed my breastplate. I
unwound my belt. My robe I
dropped to the Golgothic
mud and stepped forward. I
planted my staff, good seed
or bad, a small bare tree of
sorrow, sweating blood. My
tunic I ripped in half and
draped defeated on the
staff. I took the weighty
gold band from my right
wrist and threw it far ahead
in the deeper gloom to
clatter soft in thick-leaved
branches near the empty
cave and stone. From my
left wrist I took the bright
silver band and lofted it
behind me where it fell
in silence like a spent mob.
My dust sandals I dunked
under the surface of a deep
moonlight puddle, mirror of
the world. I stood naked to
pure strike of lightning that
incandesced me into a final
altar holocaust, atomized stars
arching spasmodically into ashes
settling, an inedible manna,
sum of all, expiation and rest.
Patrick T. Reardon
6.17.24
This poem originally appeared at Pandemonium on 3.4.24.
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/.