Obispos

Trout

He’s here again. We’re in church. He’s a bishop.
He has a long pink forefinger which he
Keeps jabbing too close to my right eye.
He wears crowblack clothes. I’m all diced up

In a new suit myself. Confirmation Day.
He opens his mouth, I can see his lips,
His teeth off-brown, his tongue placid as a
Trout resting on a hot day in the shade

Of an overhanging bank. His face is
So near mine I could swim through his eyes.
What’s peace? he asks.

‘The ha-ha-harmony of the sus-sus-soul
With Gug-Gug-God’ I reply. ‘Beautiful’ smiles the trout,
‘You are now a soldier of Christ. Go out,
Fight for him. God bless you, my son. That is all.’

Brendan Kennelly, Cromwell.

Deja un comentario

Tu dirección de correo electrónico no será publicada. Los campos obligatorios están marcados con *

Este sitio usa Akismet para reducir el spam. Aprende cómo se procesan los datos de tus comentarios.