Anam Cara

It feels indecent, given the ancient 
hunger, to write in peace with plenty
of broiled fish, greens, fresh butter

on perfect potatoes. Once there was 
a man who climbed a mountain
to converse with the law-giver’s publisher

and the prophet of prophets until he became
transfigured with the light from which he came, 
after which he was met with many demons

in a scrawny young boy. If any would ascend
she must come down the rocky path
from heights she’d rather never leave

to face whatever demons lie in wait. Only then 
does ecstasy earn its moment of sun, which may be 
the only luxury it ever knows, could ever long to know.