what has happened to
that I can sit with coffee
in the smokes of the streetcars
in the smokes of Greek cigarettes
not my own
and see a mother
as if through crystal
completely made of whiteness
completely made of light
shining from glass tables
as if closer than the sun
orangely from her ears and shoulders
into her own reflection
passed from one city
one country to another
costume-changing to angel
even amid rasping motorbikes
or under
rutting helicopters
and not just anyone
but the mother I’m with?

where is this? Africa
in an egg-yolk heat?

even as she smokes
the Sophia is flowering



Niall McDevitt


(This is a revised version of a poem which is in the current edition of Scintilla. Scintilla is a journal inspired by the work and example of Henry Vaughan.)


About Niall McDevitt

Niall McDevitt > poet > author of b/w (Waterloo Press, 2010) and Porterloo (International Times, 2012) > urban explorer > radical pedestrian who leads Shakespeare/Blake/Rimbaud /Yeats walks, among others.
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