James C. McCullagh
PRAYER AT THE END OF A TOMB
My epitaph works backwards
at worm-rate
beloved of grass and ti me.
I visit you late
with the chain of dying women
pressing thumbnail flowers
wish-deep in sand and sin
to
gauge against the tale of stone
promises raised in death
the portal hint of the ensign
predictable in primary color
like the sun-certain monstrance
defying the curve of space
within the fear of holy bells
which shatter the truth of atomic bits
with the general noon-day prayer.
The strength of the shamrock shrine
enforces the presence
of the triple-green god
blessed with a motherly gesture,
the female pinions
the arms of desire
caught in the latitude of need,
the blunt lines of a church's prayer
whet the palm talk
raised
to
ponderous forehead
by silken fingers
rudely harnessed in hate
to the pull of my soul in flight.
The damaged hawk
fed the king's pleasure
and the royal yard I traveled
