Compline—Bethany Colas

"The hours of our day are ordered by your need"

Dec 04, 2023

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Bethany Colas is a poet, military spouse, and mom of three. She currently resides in the suburbs of Connecticut with her family and their yellow Labrador Lemon who, after two years of city life in London, is happy to be a country dog once more. When Bethany's not writing poetry in the margins of her days, she can be found reading mystery novels from the golden age era, drinking vats of tea, and shuttling her ever-growing children from choir to soccer to cheerleading. In addition to writing poems for services at her church and having her poems published in Ekstasis Magazine, she is thrilled to be a new member of the fellowship of writers at Cultivating Oaks Press. You can find more of her writing at her website here.

Compline

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

It’s nine pm like every
nine pm since the day
you were born.

We dim the lights
and our neighbor below
ushers in the end
of the day with arpeggios
spun from his guitar
into the space between
his home and ours.

We pray the night prayer
with our hands: set the table
with soft towels, run water
from the tap, test its warmth
upon my wrist, fill the bowl
and carry it with hurried steps
to where you wait wrapped
in a blanket lined with fleece.

The hours of our day
are ordered by your need
to be fed and cleaned
and rocked to sleep.

Careful to keep you covered
I wash your feet and behind
your knees, then wipe away
the sour scent of milk
that has gathered in the folds
beneath your chin over a day
of being gathered to my breast
at intervals of two or three.

I long to sleep, my body
bleeds, but I stand
at the table’s edge, warm
the oil in my hands, and spread it
on your chest, anointing you,
I hope, with the permission to rest.

When you are dressed,
I wrap you up again
the way we learned–
over, under,
up, around—
and take you to the chair
where we rock in time
to the running up
and down of scales

as the man whose name
we know (but not much else)
learns to make the curving
wood and nylon strings
yield harmonies unlike
the dissonance
of brand new lungs

pushing breath through
vocal chords, a rush
of sound articulating fear
or grief, running through
those fretful parts
of me that surface
in the dark. I don’t know

how to keep you safe
beyond the days
that I can hold you
in my arms—who
will keep watch over us
when we wake up in the night,
and I, attuned to your cry,
set about the work
of comforting your
endless wanting
to be close. I know

the day will come
when my nightwork
will be to tuck you in
and kiss your cheek.
You will read yourself
to sleep. And I will go
to my own bed rehearsing
all the ups and downs
of the day we’ve had
and wonder at the days
ahead holding
in my empty hands
the aching hope
for a peaceful night
and a perfect end.

Bless and keep us, Lord.
Amen.

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