I'm almost too hot to come to you tonight, Brigid.
Or is it cold I feel—your fire burning in a village whose
center has retreated?
My own center is turning around & around
& I, dervish, uncombed, undone
in the whirling center of my world
let birds fly out of my mouth
whose messages may be read by our darkest skies--
surely there is light out there to read them by—
surely the light that burns in the center of our universe is bright
enough to bring us home.
Bright like your name, Brigid.
Bright like your songs & spells & forge.
Bright enough to forge darkness into home.
It is dark tonight.
This night, night after night
repeats & we wonder
after light, lament, fire.
I stumble around for resolution, a neat way
to part this hot & cold night.
For surely—it cannot but be—
there is a place where all that draws closer
draws the color of its own heart into light.
Surely, Brigid, you want me there tonight
& together we will turn
hot into cold
then hot again.
Day after day the wheel turns
& there is a day that will come
when day will follow night.
Surely, your name will draw in the bright
stars, bright waters
where dragons still tend to the central fire
of our village, its linked heart.