Some St. Patrick

I twist in the hangover
of my most recent imprisonment—
a time spent telling stories
to no one but me—
and critically observing
the finest details of fauna:
this is you, this is me,
this is us under the sky.
I walk the oft-named wilds
and watch my muscles
move beneath my skin
as I determinedly preach devotion—
the way and the world it would be.
This is the thing,
this is the where,
this is me
—some St. Patrick flailing at the pagans,
a path uneasily taken.
The fool’s sacrifices are
bravely made in stubbornness
(but I wanted to have
meaningful relationships
with those snakes!);
still, at some point,
even a lost disciple must realize
the Druids are too absorbed
by their stony calendars
to find sustenance in the sun.
This is the light,
this is the dark,
this is where they both reside.
My hands are bloody,
my feet are scarred,
and in the weeds:
me,
God,
the infinite,
—and, if I’m lucky—
grace.