Coffee With Saint Faustina
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash
A Poem by Nicholas Trandahl
Morning sun
glitters on fresh snow
as I brew a pot of coffee,
pour a little sweet cream
into a waiting mug,
a curl of steam,
light spilling in
over
kitchen counters,
a wooden cutting board
where I place a big honeycrisp apple,
not wholly green
or red,
and I push
a sharp knife
through crisp white flesh,
sugary juice
wetting blade,
fingertips.
I pour myself
a hot mug
before the coffee
finishes brewing
because
I’m impatient,
because
I want to feel
better,
even just a little.
Saint Faustina,
let me pour you a mug too.
Would you like
a little cream?
No?
You saints
prefer things simple,
don’t you?
Let’s settle here
at the table
next to the big window,
the one
with good light
during winter
because it faces south.
I wish
we could sit outdoors
in the fresh air,
perhaps in the yellow chairs
on the porch,
but it’s too cold,
despite what the sun says.
The north
has taught me
Apollo is a liar,
and maybe
all the gods are liars.
I don’t know
if saints like yourself
are liars.
I hope not.
I need to believe
in holiness.
I need to believe
in anything.
I need to believe
things can get better,
will
get better.
Saint Faustina, do you mind
if I just call you Faustina?
Let’s leave our titles
out of this.
Hell, this morning
we’re just having coffee
at my table.
This is no chapel.
I haven’t been in a chapel
in ages,
and I haven’t been able
to find the one in the mountains
which I’ve needed to find
for so many years.
And, Faustina,
this is no shrine
at the end
of a pilgrimage.
This is a place of slowness
in an era of simplicity, light,
and contemplation,
but I don’t feel
radiance
within me,
in the network
of my flesh,
arterial creek beds
long
dried up.
This year
has been dark earth
swallowed
down,
heavy,
and I feel
like a harbor of gravity,
a black lightless jewel
in Sagittarius.
Faustina,
these are days of gratitude,
but it’s so damn hard
to feel
grateful
after
everything
that’s happened,
so hard
to be thankful
when all my gods are liars,
when I feel
like I can’t breathe,
can’t breathe,
can’t breathe,
can’t think,
can’t need,
can’t want,
can’t feel,
can’t sleep,
can’t escape,
can’t breathe,
can’t breathe,
can’t trust,
can’t grow,
can’t smile,
can’t heal,
can’t breathe,
can’t …
can’t …
can’t …
Sorry, Faustina.
Would you like
a slice of apple?
It’s a good one,
sweet
and crisp.
Here you go.
Oh, look at the deer
out in the snow,
poking around
with their muzzles,
for something to eat.
Maybe I’ll cut up
another apple,
scatter it
in snow
for the deer.
I wonder
if the sylvan instinct
of their cervid minds
will flash
with gratitude
or greed
as they find piece
after piece,
sweet gifts
I’ve sown
in the wintry quilt
out there.
Faustina, I suppose
what I’m trying to say is
I wish I could feel grateful
here
at the end
of something,
or maybe
this
is a beginning.
Do we say amen now?
Or do we say
Listen, Father,
listen …
Nicholas Trandahl is an award-winning poet, journalist, outdoorsman, and veteran residing in northern Wyoming, where he currently also serves as mayor of his community. He has had five poetry collections published and has also been featured in numerous literary journals and anthologies. Trandahl has been awarded the Wyoming Writers Milestone Award and has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize. Additionally, he works as poetry editor for The Dewdrop literary journal and as a contributor for The Way Back to Ourselves literary journal, while also serving as chairman of the annual Eugene V. Shea National Poetry Contest.
