A Certain Place

by Rachel Creager Ireland

I have half-composed a lengthy post about Mogwai, and my ailing cat, and the nature of consciousness, but I’m pressed for time to go massage participants in the fabulous Brave Voice workshop hosted by Kelley Hunt and Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg, so we’ll just have to be satisfied with this poem. Ciao.

Wait. Take a breath. Slow down. Read it slowly. Okay. Go.

 

A Certain Place

There is a certain place on a certain road.
When you get there, it will not matter
whether you are wearing red, green, black, white,
denim, lace, stripes, or nothing at all.
It won’t matter what name you call yourself,
or how hard you worked to get there,
who helped you, who loved you,
who didn’t help or love you,
or how much money you gave to charity.
It won’t matter whether you got there
on foot, by wheel, or by wing.
Don’t explain yourself. Just stand
and listen to the bell tolling. Feel the wind
in your bones, wind that carries
the vultures through their circuits. O beloved
feathery escorts to forever, now I am here.
Here I am.

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