Anam Cara

Anything Can Come

I

Oh

the white utopia

of her mind.

Each thought is worked

until it is hard and pale.

It takes years of prayer.

Even the smear marks

of childhood erase.

But

the intentions of the rain

are not innocent, it falls

and falls upon her sleep

to soften the pavements.

Eventually

a horse, concepted

clear and royal,

brooms the cloister

with a tail of ravens.

Flint beaks spark

voices in the stone:

II

“Receive the night

from whom you come,

who longs to enfold you

since the womb.

No.

Do not look back.

For there is a man

with long palms about

to place for you

a black moon

on each shoulder.

Your face exposes you.

How you dream

of its features receding

to a nondescript

plate of white.

Unkindly, light leaves

but the memory

flicker of being

happy once

with your doll

and your daddy

in the church

until a burly,

shorthorn bull

got in a sidedoor

and up the aisle,

no one dared

to stop him,

delicately lowing,

he placed

his wild head

all over

the tabernacle.”