With an armful of stars
to light the path, you lead me
to the pool that is as still
as a mirror in the night.
This is a cure, you say,
Something to stop the sun
from speaking, to silence
the reasons to stop
breathing.
The water is as cool
as I imagined as it
creeps higher and higher
up my thighs, towards
this heart that beats
too fast for this world.
You lead me to a bench
in the water, submerge
everything but my head,
as my hair fans out
and floats on the surface.
I’m tied here for the night,
which I understand
from your explanations.
If the ropes are untied
by the dawn, I’m cured.
If not, God must not want
me to walk back to our
sturdy earth and
keep living.
You wander back to shore
with that arm that glows
like a beacon, a moon
you carry like a baby.
_________________________
"St. Fillan was the patron saint of the mentally ill. As late as the 19th century, the mentally ill were dunked in St Fillan's Pool, bound and left overnight tied to the runied chapel's font, or some say to a bench in the old priory. If the bonds were loosed by morning it was taken as a sign that the cure had been successful." -Wikipedia
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