St. Lucy's Hour

At night, the bus stop on the Broadway bridge
is only itself, but more so -
December sixteen, eighteen hundred hours:

the gritty glare of lamps that barely
penetrate the dim,
the cold air, the bare-headed shock of it,
the sudden sharp beams and the wheels
of the traffic,
the lateness of the day.

You tell me you're having trouble with your eyes.
You can't see where you're going, and there's pain -
you're laying awake in the dark.

Advent.

Looking back as I always do
to where I've been, across the tracks --
past the mill,
the school and the working class houses --
I search for our steeple,
the church where we meet, and
it's gone.

It's gone,
and worse --

Eighteen hundred hours. To my right,
an old woman, waiting;
to my left, three boys, teenagers
drunk and rapping, they're waiting --
and you, I'm glad you can't see this:
the veil is the color of lead, and the sky,
and the snow with exhaust from the cars.
A pall,
a caul,
a shadow of doubt or premonition.

You stayed home today, the darkest of days,
and groaned beneath the weight of it,
nine months and three; anniversary.
The beams of the roof, the life of the womb,
the wait.