. . . you, beloved, are not in darkness..
for you are all children of light and children of the day…
So then let us not fall asleep as others do, but let us keep awake…
~I Thessalonians 5:4-6
Stories grow in the night
like flames reaching upward.
I am old and small and dry,
but the seanchaí says that
I shall bear a child.
The white flower bloomed
after the frost when every
other thing was dead. I could
smell its perfume in the dark.
Under my father’s hospital gown,
the work clothes he was wearing
all along. Where does the good
news begin? Why is every
one so afraid? I know of an orchard
overgrown with thorns. Yellow
birds nest in the broken trees
and deer come at twilight to feast
on fallen fruit. Once upon a time
my grandmothers flew
into my kitchen as I measured
cinnamon into the dough. My hands
are not my own. All those black
men shot are my sons; their mothers
cry my sisters’ tears. The raven I moved
to the side of the road arose
and circled my head three times.
Only some of these things are dreams.
December 8, 2014