Deborah E Cox

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This Is What Motion Feels Like: Santiago De Compostela

To carve a walking stick means to turn your back,
pack away the pause of last night in the sermon of now
find the forward universe in motion and soft footsteps,

dust-covered, enchanted with cadence and shuffle
so that each milla that marks your way is shrugged off with a hush
- suddenly no need to worry the strings of heavy backpack

like a Cebreiro rosary, hardly necessary to decade-count
each sigh past Cypress and Hircinum, since the Iberian countryside
will breathe for you when words catch in your throat,

your horizon suddenly smooth, ironing the shirt folds you left behind
in that crowded closet, all lavender and merlot now replace
the stale smell of morning gin that followed nights full of waiting.

On St. James’ Way, like the surprise of stained glass in El Ganso,
rhymes become your steps, fellow traveller pilgrims suddenly
appear as pentameter, counting out with grace a movement for ode,

no need to find the iambs here, you’ve already enjambed all
wandering paths, groves of olive trees, and scallop circles into
the green syntax that placed Fisterra and a saint’s church in your way.

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