Monday, February 1, 2010

St. Brigid of Kildare

Your body is the church of the oak,

all gnarled bark, leaves like hands open

wide, and acorns with one seed each.

They hope to take root. Each new sapling

is a door to elsewhere. Woven from rushes,

your cross will protect us from the fires

we know will engulf our homes. Flames

lick our walls from the inside as we sleep.

The wallpaper pulls away from the plaster

as the heat thickens. I wake up, sweating

in my sleep, and press my hands to the wall.

I can hear the crackling of the wood and the

screams of water turning to steam. Brigid, where

is my escape? Show me the way out of this suffocation.

PATRON: babies; blacksmiths; boatmen; cattle; chicken farmers; children whose parents are not married; children whose mothers are mistreated by the children's fathers; dairymaids; dairy workers; fugitives; infants; Ireland; Leinster, mariners; midwives; milk maids; nuns; poets; poor; poultry farmers; poultry raisers; printing presses; sailors; scholars; travellers; watermen

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