We are on our way, drenched
in doubt and faith. Memories
hang on arms and reach out
for grace; the ugly smell of days
on days, miles stacked on miles
of decay swirling out of misty
morning Roncevaux grave.
We’re walking among doctors,
poets not feeling the steps
for answers to what we never said
screams and moonbeams
define our life together.
Are we leaving too little
or too much, spreading lies
with the dust that constricts
millions of breaths? Under
a month of mornings,
conch-lit sunrays bounce over
water, mark concrete pillar steps
like we taught our kids syllables —
now we learn how to die
pass cairn gardens of lost souls
never reaching the Arga river. Your
voice vibrates sheet-metal silhouettes:
"I am the wind that crosses
over the path of stars."Twenty thousand roads echo our indifference,
over fields of blood-soaked poppies —
each step covers condemned hearts.
But you are alive, our hands pass
alms to a retablo during pilgrim’s
mass, Logroño fence covered in crosses.
My eyes are traumatized by night’s
depth as sea and ash mix,
bringing you back to the shore.
Did I leave too much, in dust
that swallows millions of breaths?
When I reach the final albergue
I am alone with fiery faces;
I leave you at Cruz de Matagrande,
a heart-shaped stone filled with your ashes,
white combs of sweet honey in crumbled earth.
Ed Gaudet
Ed Gaudet is a writer and software entrepreneur who lives in Hanover, Massachusetts. In 1999, Ed was awarded the grand prize for his poem, “Sitting Shiva,” published in Into the Sun. His work has appeared in Blood & Bourbon, Burningword Literary Journal, The Inflectionist Review, Panoply, Clade Song, Naugatuck River Review, Massachusetts Bards Poetry Review 2024, and Book of Matches, Lit. His work is forthcoming in The Southwest Review.