A sanctuary, on the one hand. A mystic circle
of protection spun around the Celtic pilgrim
by his own hand, and by the hymn that shoots
from his plaintive throat. A demon, on the other,
the murderous brother doomed to roam the earth
including, no doubt, the green Irish hills
where the natives spoke his name to rhyme with time.
I stumble on this word on this day
when my sister in her prison of locked joints
lies in her bed two hours away, no more
or less afraid than usual, a day when I
discover a friend I’ve mostly known through e-mail
and traded poems has suffered a massive stroke
and soon will die when someone flips a switch.
My heart of late has been too slow to beat,
and that both is and isn’t a metaphor,
so wires taped to my skin track its movements,
my weary criminal under house arrest.
Outside the summer solstice air is dry
and cooler than usual. I step on the front porch
and look at flowers planted in March and April—
petunia, torenia, dahlia, marigold—
in pots that line the path and climb the steps.
The summer is not yet strong enough
to scorch their lightest petals, but given time
it will be. I pour cool water over bloom
and leaf and soil. With a cotton cloth I wipe
the rim of every lush pot. I whisper
the names of people I love but cannot save.
Perhaps it’s prayer enough to an antique god
to keep at least the flowers healthy for now.
Perhaps it’s not, but sometimes we can do
no more in this dusky world than plead to air.
