come unto me

 eric clapton, in george's back garden (i think)

sleepwalking again | heather macdonald

I am sleepwalking again. There is evidence of mischief everywhere.

Pictures fallen from the walls.
Shoes removed from closets and lined up on windowsills.
Nine tomatoes piled in the upper rack of the dishwasher.
A bloody left knee.

One morning
Washing up
I lean over the sink.
In the mirror
I see my face.
Somehow, in the night
I've shaved off my eyebrows.

Moonlight,
The Bishop finds me
Outside the cathedral
High on a balcony
Perched, knees drawn up
Sitting between two gargoyles
Shivering.

Below
The Bishop calls to me,
"Samuel. Samuel," he says,
"Would you like a blanket?"

At 49
I've returned to the practice of my youth.
I, Samuel Gentle,
By day, groundskeeper 
For The Church of the Holy Comforter.
By night, somnambulist.


from An Almost Holy Picture

heather macdonald | '57 thunderbird

While Ariel and Miriam sleep, I wander down to the gas station where Mr. Martinez and I sit in a gleaming white '57 Thunderbird he's been restoring, and we drink coffee and smoke.

There is another realm, that which is beyond, and we long to be at home in that realm. Occasionally, that realm breaks through. One of the places I have felt that realm has been in Mr. Martinez' '57 Thunderbird. 

One winter I'd had to return to the Cape in January. There had been a terrible storm and I'd come to repair the roof on my summer house. Mr. Martinez had bought the gas station and moved to Truro with his seven year old son in late September, so we hadn't yet met. The first time I saw him, there was a light snow falling. He stood behind the station, eyes closed, and now and then he ran his hand over his smooth brown head that shone in the moonlight. He must've been standing there awhile because the snow had drifted up around his boots. He looked to be floating. I coughed and asked if I could borrow a hammer. He said he had three and that I could choose. Then he ran his hand over his smooth head again and said, "The most delightful advantage of being bald -- one can hear snowflakes."

from An Almost Holy Picture