by Erin Riordan
In loving memory of Patrick, May 2019 to December 24th, 2024
I.
I wash the wound daily
praising the daffodils’
dazzling light.
I wash the wound tucking
vegetable seeds
into dark beds.
I wash the wound walking
through San Francisco’s Mission District
mouth watering for pupusas
and his face on mine.
Weary of half-heartedness
Exhausted from penance
the wound won’t hold a grudge
when the word is right.
Washing the wound
requires precision,
so I pray to the angels of metaphor.
II.
“I was taught
snakes are of the devil”
a woman says
at a dream workshop
at a local community college
When asked for associations of ouroboros.
I too learned the same.
So when the snakes broke through
what encased me,
I told them to go to hell.
When the snakes wound
through appearances to upend me,
I clubbed them
until they bled.
I anointed my cat Patrick
in honor of the saint
who killed the snakes
of my people.
For too many years, the snakes did not speak to me.
Their silence, deafening.
When they returned,
I bowed before them,
for it is the snakes
who teach me
how to wash the wound.
III.
Teeth to draw the poison
from the femur
to the flesh.
The body trembles in its ecstatic hunger
broken like bread in wine
surrendered to the knowledge
our animal
has never been anything other
than innocent.
About the author:
Erin Riordan is a poet and troubadour whose work speaks to the mythopoetic imagination of the land where she resides, West Marin, California, and of her Irish ancestors. She is dedicated to inspiring wonder and affirmation of life, nature & soul through poetry. She previously published poems and essays in the Braided Way Magazine.
