Shadow of the walking bird
Patrick T. Reardon
In those days, judgement
was in the howl throat of
every woman and man.
I was at the bottom of
the cistern in thick mud
— above my head, a
waste land of light.
Doctrine, that sheaf of
thin reeds, was slapped against
the cheek, a buffeting, a spitting,
speaking false from hollow power.
The messenger died running through
the hell of evils, in great darkness, in
last days.
In the tavern, a shot of
Old Testament.
The tyrant’s footprint in
Men’s linoleum,
black stone tower,
sacred small change.
At consecration, the infant
crawls the church carpet,
smiling her kaddish.
Patrick T. Reardon
8.16.26
This poem originally appeared in Quibble Lit: Volume 5 on 10.1.22.
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 https://patricktreardon.com/.