Saint Lucia Day
In the stairwell you lit ten
candles, circling, peril of hot wax
and flame upon my head, the sleep
of unknowing bodies waiting
above. In the wake of darkness
you carried a tray of saffron buns
laced with sugar, cups of hot chocolate,
steam welling amidst handfuls
of white dress, a continuous infusion
on this darkest of days: the year's holiest prayer.
I lifted my chin to keep the candles lit,
and you unshrouded the coming of bread and light.
k. bradford is a poet, filmmaker, and performance artist. She is an
editor for Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review and lives Austin, Texas.
Potentially, might be ...