Triptych for Candlemas
by Hannah Kosak
for my father
1.
Cold flames shiver like so many teeth chattering,
having fallen into hands numb and waiting
for the birth-march to begin.
We are a herd; we imitate what we see.
In February, we keep our heads tucked
into coats lined with wool—we learned this
from the geese, folding in on themselves
with bent necks to find the places
in their own bodies that hold the most warmth.
When the prayers begin, imitation
becomes reverence—each head bowed and balanced
on the spine like a flame placed on a wick,
whispering the same words
as if this prayer is our whole language:
our father, somewhere farther north—
every step becomes a wingbeat,
this crowd a flock of geese migrating
with discordant calls
from one home to another, following
the light that means somewhere,
there is the warmth
of two doors opening—
flickering apart, then back together.
Patterns reveal themselves
this way: in the shuffle,
the random shudder of our candles
that seems to converge for a spectacular moment,
like all these hearts could beat, once, together.
2.
This church fills like a hungry lung,
all of us returning for something.
I think of you,
saying the same prayers in a town
the geese have already left.
Tomorrow, it will snow.
Today, the clouds
are one cloud, looming. I count
the footprints I would make
trying to get back to you. I open
my hymnal—folded corners, clipped wings,
as though it might rustle
into the air. Everyone here breathes
together and sings a song you know.
In echo, I almost hear you
breathe with us, beginning
the next phrase.
You are my other lung—
flying out of my chest.
3.
The organ in the loft above me
hums stained-glass notes,
colorful and precise, a kind of music
that takes your shape. Suddenly,
I am a child at a piano, wanting more.
Wanting to love what you loved.
I watched geese melt into early winter
and felt somehow empty at the loss.
Let them come back like a refrain
when the wind rises
through the body of the organ,
singing in warm brass tones,
an atonal choir returning home.
I always come back to this: I hold my hand
in prayer and wish that it was yours.
Sound heaves through the pipes like a birth;
somewhere, geese teach children to cry. The organist
finds a chord that shakes the hollow room,
the bone-hard cavity of my chest.