Saint Anthony

by Erin Currier

How many times have I turned around
on as many malecons
to find the corners of your eyes?
Scattered paper offerings at our feet.
Terns circle a midnight
in Iquique; and in Beirut:
Muslim schoolgirls hand in hand with midday.

Just as birds bearing river mortar
return to the eaves in Spring—
their dwellings strung high like Kowloon lanterns,
so do you return to me always:
the sound of your footfall as certain
as a jaw settling into itself.

You approach with the force of Favelas,
high rises, and all the ruins of Rome
in your wake—a blue black desert monsoon at your back.
And yet, your breath:
Jacinta trees in bloom
In a Southern Hemisphere Spring.