San Diego Poem: Palm Sunday
For Deirdre Lickona
Tonight, the bluish TV screen warps into wine’s darkness-- Each hollowed head, each explosion, each kiss or gun Stretches its restless bandwidth as through a glass vessel. I lie. Nothing is going on outside. A dog barks That same nothing in the moon’s language, although archeology Has long since laid him to rest: in Pharaohs’ tombs, Concubines laced their necks with canine teeth. The dogs Capitulated; lost their place among the stars--Good dogs . . . And California is grateful for the Great Bear: desire dips Down and plays out along the sky’s palm-strewn edge, And for no such idea, the tall slender trunks ball up Their fists of palm. Sunday prays to draw near enough, To blunt the week’s point: Saturday’s milieu of flight and fight, Of kiss and gun, of dogs and kings, of death and light-- The blue, drank as purple, distills the rest into San Diego’s days.
--Joseph O’Brien
Joseph O’Brien lives on a rural homestead near Soldiers Grove, Wisconsin, with his wife Cecilia and their seven children. He is a freelance writer and hosts the online radio program Cover to Cover for Catholic Radio International.
