Today's poem is by Kathleen Lynch
The saint flung himself
into a thorn bush to incur
of his joy.
Beyond what he imagined,
petals broke looseso like
flesh he could not
look upon them.
toward him: air, the ocean
hauling onto the edge, the shifting
Who knows sanctity of half-closed eyes?
Blessed be blood and its metallic
taste. Blessed the fool who flings
himself sick into the fever
Take his hands. Turn palms upno
lines: not life, nor love, nor children.
This is not a silence, but a music
beyond the range.
If his wounds need binding,
rend your shirt
Copyright © 2004 Kathleen Lynch All rights reserved
from The Tule Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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