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Litany, Late January
by B.J. Buckley

The soul weighs the same as a slice of bread.
I fain would lie down,
vole in its sweet-smelling grass-lined tunnel,
ewe with her lamb,
calf curled in the stubble—
glass knife of frost, the still of the air.
The soul weighs the same as a touch, as a kiss,
the same as a cross-stitched pillowcase.
The soul is the seed of a milkweed pod,
adrift, adrift—the fallowing fields,
the ice-locked sod.
I fain would lie down,
a bird in her nest all mounded with snow,
owl in its hollow,
wintering sparrow,
I fain would lie down into dreams.
The soul weighs the same as the river fog.
I fain would lie down,
fox in her den, her fur for a fire,
crow in the pine with the wind for a choir,
I fain would lie down
like banked embers, bright spark
that's the soul wide awake
in the dark.

                       for Dainis Hazners

First published: Lilipoh  

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