Even when the clouds parted
I knew no gods would deliver
us from our troubles.
Having made do for so long,
I had only myself for counsel.
In a country where divorce
is not legal, no court-
appointed psychologist
would guarantee I was
afflicted most by the fevers
of irreconcilability.
Rain fell and fell, making
around our dwelling a kind
of moat. Does subsistence
signify an awning
spread over some kind
of life? I used to hide
part of my weekly paycheck
in a pillow slip. I gathered
children in my arms
and built a crossing
of grass and words. Now I dream
that angels with flaming swords
might still sweep down to clear
the way— Perhaps, they live
in the wood; perhaps they are
the ones who tint the skins
of leaves and make whole
groves of trees look lit: on fire,
the hour just before dusk.
~ after “Curious Isle,” Clive Hicks-Jenkins; oil pastel on paper
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- A pilgrim’s progress
- Ghost Currency
- Orchard