Voice
Patrick T. Reardon
. Hear my voice. Hide me. He underwent translation, like a poem set afire, like a slashed Madonna and Child. Sword tongue and bitter salad. River of peace, unfountained. He apologized for self-death in the note in his angular writing, left-handed difficulty, trouble. Oh, what a beautiful. Oh, what a good. Oh, what a drain. The red-brown hair glistens in the sidewalk sun, a bible unwritten, a psalm not yet heard in the skull of the psalmist. Rooms never used, sloppily bricked-up, like flat-air tombs. Shoot, shoot, shoot. Secret snares. Deep humble. At the time of the gun, he had a checklist to fulfill as his duty before leaving guilty. Trickster tree. Rattle, cattle. Flight.
This poem was originally published at The Thieving Magpie, Issue 33, Spring 2026
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/.