A KIND OF BEAUTY

I am honey,
Dripping off the 
Finger of one who
Stuck it 
Into the comb; 
Oozing. 
I melt
Into the queue of 
Cars racing, pedalling
Cycles, electrified,
That lean in and 
Out of the lanes. I am 
The wind in my cat’s 
Fur as she
Raises her chin,
Eyes sealed,
And lets the current
Swoosh right through her.
I am all soft centre,
Yolk with no shell — 
Wobbling jello –
Formless and fluttering
Like a flag in the gusts,
Flapping against the mast.
And when they take
Umbrage (or outrage)
At my meekness,
No centre of gravity
Opposes them;
But I slip into the
Ocean of grief where 
They swim in isolation,
And feel the salt 
Lap at my cheeks, and ask 
My God (for I cannot)
To forgive us, again, 
And again.

– Rita Glennon

Written on Ash Wednesday 2026 (February 18).