by Sean Denmark
A field disgorged,
to the bishop led there
by a star, a saint’s
remains, a shallow
to attract ever more
distant folks until
the catchment of
St. James’s bones
engulfed kingdoms
& more & more
farmers along the way
battled shortcuts
through their wheat.
Pilgrims attract coins
& miracles attract
pilgrims & a solid
miracle—a healing, say,
of some medieval’s
blindness—could sprout
a little chapel along
the path its wings, to flourish
& to crow, till some
fresher miracle erupted
somewhere, draining off
the blessing seekers.
Whoever has will be
given more & whoever
doesn’t have, even that
will be taken away &
on & on till the bubble
bursts again. Post-
Spain’s-Great-Recession,
the Camino barrels
past the weightless buoys
of empty towns—
one gorged vein
among necrotic tissue.
Wanna buy a house?
That hot new
definition of village
sweeping the earth
like wildfire: old folks
& little kids.
 
Sean Denmark hails from Alabama but moved to New York City, where he teaches and writes. His poetry has appeared in Bellevue Literary Review and other publications, and he is working on a manuscript of poems first penned while on pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago.