Every morning, every night
He folds his hands and holds them up.
I spill out the blister packs
Scarlet pills in a scarred white cup.
I have seen that shape before
And now I find it troubles me –
Those hands held in just that way –
But I can’t place the memory.
Capsules gather in his hands,
Each decoration in its turn,
With names like Latin liturgies
That neither of us care to learn.
They’re meant to still his demons,
Quiet the trembling in his limbs.
Meant to make his visions cease
And meant to win some rest for him.
Only later on that night
When all is quiet on the floor
I remember where I’ve seen
Those hands make that shape before.
On Sunday at the altar
Patrick kneels with his hands held up
To eat, drink in that same way
Body and blood from that same cup.
He takes one like the other –
Would that we all were so devout,
Swallowing a mystery
For to cast a mystery out.
Who’s your favourite person in the Bible and why?
The apostle John. I love the way he writes, the union
of poetry and plain statement, both in his Gospel and