Confession at St. Augustine
by John Calvin Hughes

On this beach, this lash of sand,
the water's inviolate penumbra,
where rocks that vied
for permanence against
the sins of tide and moon
lost, we lie.

Across the bridge, the continent's oldest city
huddles against the coming night—
St. Augustine. As a child I knew it
was the grass robing
my grandfather's front yard,
a skybed of the stars,
sweet in the teeth, browny dry in winter,
redeemed by the grace of spring.

You ask me if love is forever.
I confess I don't know:
forever like stones or
forever like stars?
I think I am telling the truth.
What lasts in the material
world, with the city of god crumbling
behind us, the cities of the north
rusting and abandoned,
emptied like souls,
like the houses of Carthage?
Where are they now?

We walk from salted, broken earth
into the darkening water.
It scatters St. Augustine's light
onto us like grace.
You say, Is it forever?
I shake my head and you
push me under
the silent beneath of waves.

But I rise again
baptized beyond good and evil
by your understanding,
rising between the light in the sea
and the dark in the stars,
a new man.

John Calvin Hughes has published poems, stories, and criticism in numerous magazines and journals. He is the author of The Novels and Short Stories of Frederick Barthelme, a critical study from the Edwin Mellen Press. He lives and works in Florida.

© 2008 prickofthespindle.com