Sapphire Within

 

Yeah, she mused when signing into church,

it lifts the lid of my mystery, yet

isn’t that a little due by now, depending…

 

The protocol had been in place since spring,

off for summer months then on again

for autumn during this endless quarantine,

and through the yuletide season more extreme,

 

online services at hand, if sorely not the same;

I have the looks for radio, she jibed

to no one listening, knowing her skin

and curves beneath the thriftshop layers

lent lust to shrifted imagination, least of all

the priest’s, who assured her through the years

the gospel wasn’t gained or lost from lip service,

his or hers or Vatican III’s, hiding needlessly.

 

Unlike some, her signature conveyed

the care of every letter, legibly, with little

flair for the L that led to u and enclaves in the i

between the c and a, no duplicity in mind

to bring this name to light, followed by

a surname that still spoke to a father’s claim

she had to leave at age thirteen, when

he turned into a viper, smitten by his bite

more than the bitten consequence, time and

time and not another time again. A smattering

of those who knew would keep an eye on things,

but God knows such surveillance depends on…

 

everyone and everything in synch, by

volition or involuntary mechanics, like traffic

lights with sensors, staying green or red

during the vacant hours of any given night.

 

To that extent, the midnight vigil lured her

most of all, whether Maundy Thursday, New

Year’s Eve, occasions when the hospital

threw up its hands and handed off to miracles

that maybe could be made, if never proved.

 

Tonight was such a need, when liturgy and nods

to one another were less the energy than

candle heat and silent streams of consciousness,

a bit of seeing and being seen, depending…

 

                                    ~~~

 

Resins of black cherry trees and beeswax

smoothed the splintered cavities of each pew,

kneeling bench and altar, polished by the timeless

hours of public privacies that these folks do—

not all prayers and adoration, to be sure,

yet by osmosis holy acts among the dreams,

 

or lack of them, for some. The two-year-old

we’re gathered for may understand this

not-according-to-the-plan; but has she wrapped

her mind around a dream? Depends on definition.

 

Two meters’ space meant empty pews and no

overt exchanging of the peace; masks

would muffle harmonies if singing were allowed,

 

but midnight vigils don’t need policies to color

within the lines—darkness does so, anyway.

 

Her mother named her ‘light’ and hoped

for eyesight greater than her own, jaundiced

through a steady flow of Božkov, a rum she

could afford with little guff at grocery stores.

There was no vigil the night she died

behind the steering wheel, dependent on some

 

navigation system to override her abdicating

dendrites, stretched and saturated beyond what

Holly deems the ‘mean reds’ and I still call the blues,

to keep a cloudless sky in front of you,

even in the dark, or within whatever ark…

 

She noticed other souls, of course, drawn to

pray for not-according-to-the-plan. Most were

old; some linked elbows as the law allowed—

provided they were family or tested negative

within the past three days (or nights, depending).

 

One—a youth her age—sat clear across

the sanctuary, usually last to come and first

to leave, between the taking of communion and

announcements for the week, which had no sway

on those who didn’t need community, as such.

 

How he heard about this vigil then? Unless

an uncle to the toddler or intern at the hospital…

At any rate, he was more enclosed in shadow

than anytime she’d see him try to peer her way

before, peripheral and in the ochre light of

Sunday mornings through stained glass,

a reason, perhaps, she had dyed her blonde hair

light blue, to keep away the likes of you.

 

                                    ~~~

 

The vigil reached beyond a fulcrum point

that presupposes God must be content by now, as

prayer is not a vehicle on which fate depends,

 

rather a hand to hold to face things unalone.

Purell was everywhere; still, the stiff-arm legal code

insisted self-control. In this regard, she thought,

I wish the world would caution from within,

 

just as things were finishing. She stood

and saw the young man hadn’t exited, as if

the blanket of the service had nuzzled him to sleep.

She dipped her fingers in the holy water font

and slipped outside, windy not enough

to mute her name, inflected as a question—

probably resigned to be ignored, depending…

 

She stopped, though, in the fading radius

of a courtyard light, glistening with

crystals of a freshly fallen snow. I’m not what

your imagination makes, her eyes said softly,

as stovetop flames when nothing needs to boil.

His, of hazel weariness, agreed. He raised

a mittened hand and uttered ‘peace to you’

before retreating to the narthex door.

 

He said likewise to Old Agnes, coming out,

keeping to the metered rule, and she responded

with his name. Frail and heartfelt all the same.

 

The women, sixty years apart, walked down

the hill to level, less slippery streets. Agnes

mumbled platitudes and faith the present plague

would run its course. Or curse, Lucia said.

Agnes nodded, ‘all depends on point of view.’

 

May I ask who shared the peace with you?

Agnes lifted her withered apple face

to look into the mournful irises of sapphire

and charity within. ‘He was found inside

a dumpster maybe twenty years ago. Cold just

like tonight, God only knows how long

he lay there, or would have lasted more.’

 

Too much to say at two a.m., they bid adieu.

Lucia listened when she passed recycle bins—

plastic yellow, paper blue, glass in green and

white—harboring perhaps another plight,

 

clarity for vigils notwithstanding. I could

never be a nun, she blushed, even there

being hit upon. Opening the blueness of her

mind, she would find what fate depended on.

 

Daniel Martin Vold Lamken (2020)