Suffer
By Patrick T. Reardon
Suffer the children to visit the prophet.
Suffer the shearwaters and other birds
to cringe at the raptor sound from a machine.
Saint Augustine’s night prayer.
Christ before, Christ in quiet.
One-Cent, wolflike, watches
the brisk-hipped maiden
fronting the blues band Thunder Lord
in the basement bar called Halls.
She drinks honeyed wine and
stares past the glass rim
at the tall thick guy in a vest.
Prayer for a happy death.
Never was it known.
I’m Julia, she says to One-Cent.
He says it back to her.
Suffer the ember on the tongue.
Suffer the roof tar stick.
Make me an instrument.
This cloth has been touched to a First Class Relic.
My zodiac is the cave lion, she says.
He says, I read maps like scripture.
They cast lots for dinner and
end up at the McDonald’s drive-through.
Here mention your petition.
Suffer the mountains to fall.
Suffer the rain-snow to lightly coat the body.
Patrick T. Reardon
8.27.24
A shorter version of this poem appeared in The Seventh Quarry, Issue 40, Summer/Autumn 2024.
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/.