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Communion of saints
(Chicago edit)

Patrick T. Reardon

Under the red Christmas tree,
she arranges a communion of saints.

A communion of saints,
electric with purpose,
heads for lunch
on noon Michigan Avenue sidewalks.

After Lane Tech football, in the parking lot,
a communion of saints
— jammed in the CTA subway car,
in the Aldi’s line,
living among the lost tribes,
strung out along the marathon route,
in the Graceland tomb,
applauding at the ballet,
in cardboard walls along Lower Wacker Drive,
blinded by moonlight,
found in the flood,
on a conference call,
after the whirlwind,
in the camp.

Read this list of those laid-off:
a communion
of saints.

On the long Oak Street beach sand,
in thick afternoon heat,
the bare sweat-sheen skin of a communion of saints.

In the jury pool at 26th and California,
a communion of saints fidgets.

In his dust bannered-basement,
a communion of saints,
watching alone the Bears.

At State and Lake,
a rush-hour communion of saints
hustles up and down elevated station stairs.

The White Sox roster, a communion of saints —

everyone in the Chicago City Council,
everyone on United Flight 5253 from Albuquerque,
all of the New Trier students moving between classes,

each person who stops
at Gallery 238 in the Art Institute of Chicago,
to puzzle the terra cotta “Adoration of the Christ Child,”
created five hundred years ago
by the workshop of Andrea della Robbia,
soft and delicate as grief,

all of us rising in this therapy elevator at 30 N. Michigan,
everyone who finds out today test results,
every baby born at Northwestern Memorial Hospital,
and golfer at Columbus Park,
and everyone trying on an awkward prom dress,
and sleeping baby,
and cop bending bulkily out of the squad,
and communicant,
and inmate,
Trump and Clinton,
everyone cumbersome with fear,
nun and hit man,
water and wine,
everyone numb,
everyone singing “Twist and Shout,”
everyone singing “I and I,”
everyone singing “Howl,”
every cheering voice,

and everyone, frayed and serene,
in blue-gold Alden Family Reunion t-shirts
in the Thaddeus S. “Ted” Lechowicz Woods picnic grove,
in the Cook County forest preserve,
off Central, near Elston.

List (partial) of those born innocent —
Hitler, Manson, Vlad, serial killers,
Wilkes Booth, Pol Pot, genociders,
torturers, Nero, Torquemada, enslavers,
Ivan, Roy Cohn, profiteers, StalinÉÉÉÉ.

A communion of saints,
shot over the weekend.

Dan Ryan, bumper to bumper,
a communion of saints —
power-walking the mall circuit,
behind the counter at McDonald’s,
on the river trail bike path,
smoking outside Emporium in 2 a.m. Wicker Park,
renting shoes at Waveland Bowl,
writing poems,
writing tickets,
over the moon,
waiting for the laundromat dryer to cycle,
feeling the urgency,
under the thumb,
under the wire,
under the weather,
all those breaking the bread.

Everyone coming warily, angrily, hurriedly,
out of anesthetic,
everyone in the Lyric Opera, even mute supernumeraries,
every newly hired garbage worker,
every frayed teacher,
a communion of saints —
all of us riding escalators
at the James R. Thompson Center,
all of us ignoring the beggar,
all of us on the reservation,
all of us reading Song of Solomon,
all of us reading the Song of Songs,
all of us singing “Song of Myself,”
each one of us under the gun,
each of us uncertain,
all of us yearning,
all of us aching,
all of us feeling the tock and the tick.

 

The full version of this poem originally appeared in San Antonio Review.

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