by Peter Cooley
That’s what they call them in some Celtic texts,
these spaces between our world and the next.
In ancient times, I’ve heard, the traveling path
was near as reaching out your hand: touch, grasp.
For me, the way is blocked. Daily I clear
such small entrance as my life will permit.
Today, Monday, I don’t see much out here
since I’ve released my dove after the flood.
I stand on my front porch: the air is fair,
blue, heavenly in hue and clarity.
I watch my neighbors rushing to work
and school, and rules, gold stars and bonuses.
Soon I will join them, shaved and showered and dressed.
I’m certainly not a magus in a cave.
But I see places indescribable
I’m carrying inside as I proceed.
Describe one? All right: a crack in the mirror
when there’s no mirror. What else can I say?
Most days I make myself enter that mirror—
not every day, I’m no saint— still, most days—
and then re-enter where I am, changed, changed,
every day I come back paradise, here.
Published on May 5, 2016