I am with you, pilgrim,
through farthest reaches of your broken mind,
the desert-bone beaches of solitude
you traverse like a champion would,
crying blood, better than a man ever could.

No one catches you like I can, myself
charging on winged fire to keep up.

I am with you, pilgrim,
through darkened centuries of Mexican night,
amid language and bitter spice alone
you have tasted; still I was, imperceptibly
holding you under my feathers and cloak,
so none could get at you, evil or good.

I am with you, pilgrim,
through your locked confinement, solitary as a cell.
Glassed in, seeing out yet to the world unseen:
which is the terrible, parallel vision of the seer,
who beholds all yet is held by none.
Instead, is held, jealously, by the fist of God.


View the painting that inspired the poem.

July 20, 2018 — Alexandra Hunter
Tags: poetry