POETRY
A boy on the bus drinking red wine by himself.
The intercession on a scrap of paper
is read aloud at weekday Mass.
I think of a teenager with acne,
pink at the ears and the back of his neck,
an open bottle of Tesco plonk, acrid
fumes mingling with Lynx and sweat.
Did he get lucky—nick it and swig?—
or was it snatched in anger, slugged-down-
poultice for a roughed-up heart—
I picture the bus rumbling into the dark.
I am making assumptions. This boy
may be en route to find his mates, hang
out, crack up. Maybe a date, or simple
weariness with the week’s wheel,
or some new thing he can’t articulate.
I know that sense of certainty misplaced.
Prayers done, the boy persists in his
lone journey, clutching rough red wine
as salve for what might trouble him.
I am sorry, I would tell him, life
is difficult and rich at the same time.
Angels and sacraments come in disguises—
Feathery fragments gleam in the dark.
Lift up your heart. Lift up your heart.
A Sorrowful Mystery
If you find yourself lost in the forest
or garden at night
and the heady scents of lemons,
apples, olives, blood-red grapes
fail to console you; if you
can’t discern dim shadows from
faint gleams; and subtle rustling
lets you guess you are not quite alone; if
you kick a sharp stone over
forcing thoughts to squirm away,
there is nothing, nothing to do
but open wide your arms and pray—
and who’s to say you won’t have found
your answer in the darkness,
grace landing lightly as a sparrow
on your outstretched empty hand.
Sarah Law lives in Norwich, UK, and tutors for the Open University. Her poetry collections include Thérèse: Poems (Paraclete Press, 2020). Her novel, Sketches from a Sunlit Heaven (Wipf and Stock 2022) was awarded an Illumination Book Awards 2023 Silver Medal. She edits Amethyst Review, an online journal for new writing engaging with the sacred.
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