Magic Hour

by Christos Polydorou

The wrath
of God
inevitable. Before
passion was invented
it had to be watered
down,watered down,
to flow doably,
doably, through the
hearts of men and women
in whom the Spirit dwells
within, dwells
within, the Spirit,
in awe of the

and jealous,
because of it,
the body is hollow
without the
Spirit. My grandfather
told me some
of these things, novels,
my mother,
poems, something a
journalist said,
or a flash of genius
thinking in an
op-ed piece,

I cannot explain
how specific
texts “call to us”
How they know
our names
across shelves
and parks,
across train stations
and in the eyes
of lovers,
rested, resting, restful,
deep, deeper, deepest,
closest to the flame.

He needed a new
name for wrath.
He needed someone

in whom his
suffering became love
through acceptance
of his transgressive
or feminine or evil side,
categories we have long since
extrapolated, processed,
and rationalised.
He had a son.

And now the wrath
of God
is a thing
we must be cleverly eluding,
look at the way of the world today,
all the glaring absurdity
and injustice.

Forgiveness is not
as permanent
as trauma.

Call it karma.

The healing charm
of the magic hour.