Pilgrimage Poem by Indigo Hawkins

There's nothing like the threat of poverty
to sweeten the beaten path, except rum,
& martyrdom, when at last overcome
by shame of excess. O lord don't leave me.

Locked inside a room with nothing but news,
listening to blues, isn't what I'd choose,
if I could choose. Seagulls have been crying,
crows flying, for hours: amplifying
a redolent descrying of spirit
to all the pedestrians who hear it.

And I hear it—the narrative of doubt
that's been scattered clumsily throughout
this consciousness—life clinging to clement
in the foment of a mindless moment…