O'Malley and the Word of God
O'Malley fights his way through the swamp,
leeches clinging to his trunk like black ribbons,
robbed of his canoe in the Chuckwalla rapids,
on his way to convert the Los Vagos people.
Mosquitos bedevil his head, sun-bedazzling
his sight, he grows delirious: alligators chomp
and pythons slither the khaki green swamp;
he's a bipedal meal, a tasty afternoon repast.
Drags himself, or thinks he does, onto an island,
weakened as 'gators snap at his ankles and toes.
Dreams of his father dying in Sligo, skeletal hand
on counterpane, murmuring manic, drone-faced,
an old man sinking rapidly, bankrupt of will.
He caresses his hand. No, not a man's, birdlike.
The infernal rain streams the windows, gurgles
the downspout, mildews the striped wallpaper.
O'Malley's eyes blur. He recalls Da's grave,
festive with montbresia, a piss-poor memorial.
But then Da' speaks to him, young, clear,
resonant, all the wounds and cares shrugged off,
as now God soothes him: "I will make a bridge
of alligators to cross the swamp, O'Malley."
So his sandaled feet find themselves
on the first 'gator. It groans but grins,
. . . then onto the second, . . . the third, . . .
Each gurgles a protest but lets him travel on,
help him reach the dry land of the Los Vagos,
who pour flowers on him, gift him with faith.
-- Christopher T. George
This poem is the last in a series featuring Father O'Malley.
You can view the entire series here.