monk
“A man who is a member of a religious order and lives in a monastery”
As in: a holy man
who hallows mountain streams
heals sick infants
possibly a saint.
No one said anything about gloves—
old leather gloves, once fine, now worn.
He said he would hang a glove
on a sunbeam for me.
No one said anything about his sly smile,
his jokes in Latin. This renegade brother,
this painter of dragons, this tall-stooped
gray liar who almost killed a man.
As in: the man who was a clasp across my life
between the dwarf maiden and the cathedral
between the wreath and the wife
between me and the vat.
This monk was never happy in a monastery.
He loved the Road even more than
Sister Poverty and Sister Charity. When I
walked the Road, he was at my side: invisible.
As in: a miracle-maker, standing there
in honey-gold midnight light,
laughing, he hung
a glove on a moonbeam for me
He somehow died without a hand, so I
gave silver to fashion him a new one.
But you, my merry monk,
you must find your own glove.
Megan Willome is a writer, editor, and author of The Joy of Poetry and Rainbow Crow, a children’s poetry book. Her day is incomplete without poetry, tea, and a walk in the dark. More writing links at her website and at Poetry for Life.
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