Bless me, Father. I can’t conceive.
I am barren as gum-spotted sidewalk cement.
Forlorn in my failure to transubstantiate cells.
Wombed guilty in my shadow-shivering,
wombed empty, unquickened,
wombed naked in the gold and flame sanctuary,
wombed at the stake in the grit, dirt square.
I am sinful in my innocence,
wombed transgression,
wombed stain uncleansed,
wombed sweat and blood and semen soiled.
Wombed heartily.
In the pew
Hail Mary full
wash me whiter than snow.
Dream the tall policeman.
-
Patrick T. Reardon, a Chicago Tribune reporter from 1976 to 2009, is the author of eight poetry collections. His latest is a chapbook from Bottlecap Press called New Chicago. His book Every Marred Thing: A Time in America won the 2024 Faulkner-Wisdom Prize. He is a six-time nominee in poetry for a Pushcart Prize.
