Magazine December 09, 2019, Issue


(Ivan Alvarado/Reuters)

It was cold when they left Macedonia,
The saints barely warm in their robes,
Sleet on the mules. In Greece,
The villages shuttered and mean.
Dangerous ports, difficult seas — 

Wasn’t much warmer.
Crepuscular streets, hushed welcomes,
Worried looks at the door.
From Macedonia, said the saints.
With money for the Christian poor — 

In cramped houses, dinners of fish and figs.
Lamplight played on plaster walls.
Later at night, the lowing of the kine,
A different meal,
The bread of remembrance, the wine — 

In Rome,
Dome impossibly high.
Rain blows like a spirit
Onto the flagstones.
The saints walk into gold
In the frescoes,
Urgent everlasting gold — 

And I, who have no home —
When will I come from Macedonia?

Brian J. Buchanan is a writer in Nashville, Tenn. His short stories, poems, and essays have appeared in Crannog, Chronicles, The Westchester Review, Literary Matters, Modern Age, Cumberland River Review, Potomac Review, and elsewhere.

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