Poem: The hill

The Hill

 

Patrick T. Reardon

 

 

Reign and tremble, the

earth moves to the

sound of the terrible

name.  Judgment is

given, righteous

answers to unasked

questions on Exodus

Avenue. The priests

are hard wood, carved

by sharp stones. Pillar

of cloud, pillar of smoke,

salt pillar. The hill is holy.

 

One-Cent is naked to the

tin stare, scrutinized by

the praetorium crowd,

like a pinned data point,

unarmored — no shield for

the sword sweep.

 

     In the land of the

Red Earth People

on Great Horse Mountain.

 

Nowhere to step but

in mud. The growl above

of airliners approaching

over wide water. The

candidate, unctuous as

a well-fed actuary. The

fool chanting: No canker,

no cracker, no corker, no

cooker, no cancer, no

conger, no cooler, no

collar, no caller — a

calm cult negation.

 

At the gray lot in

mornings, along Best

Minds Boulevard, slant

sun sparks broken glass

— brown, clear, green —

slivered in asphalt

crevices, constellation.

Broken-leg yellow

traffic horse, worn,

brown rust nails

spiking the bare

boy calf of One-Cent.

 

     On the Blue Frog

River in the year of

the hapless Swiss.

 

The sheep assigned to

the table.  Corded

and reproached. Arc

of scorn, temple of

confusion. Avengement.

One-Cent asleep in

the prayer drone, the

mollyrattle of cicadas.

Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?

 

In the White Lizard Field,

at the foot of the mountain

of death shadow: Secrets and

slaughters. Mercy. Mercy.

The boy was big-boyed.

 

     With the Black Wood priests.

 

A galaxy of broken glass,

beautiful and abrupt,

color glints addressing

one another in psalms

and hymns and spiritual

songs over the roar of

sewer rivers.

 

Patrick T. Reardon

 

This poem originally appeared in Ginosko Literary Journal on 3.26.25.