St. January

St. January

J.C. Scharl

I.

New Year’s Eve: we poor godlings
huddle around tinsel fires
that don’t warm our hands.

The West’s a cauldron
of clouds. The sunset rises

like smoke. In the temple
of Janus, the war-doors
are always open now.

II.

I know, I know,
the girl shakes her head,
reaching for the cigarettes.

It’s not midnight yet. I promised
myself this’ll be my year.

The girl is everywhere. Everywhere
such drugstore lips tick,
counting down.

III.

Everywhere the world’s moving
through its stages of decay; it’s just
me trying to stay put,

which is say go backwards,
back to when (in my mind at least)

the world was full of solid things
that cast the shadows
smiting me today.

IV.

St. Januarius died in Napoli
with his companions. Today, a priest
elevates a vial of that congealed blood—

St. Januarius dies in Napoli,
and we, his changeling companions, watch

his blood resolve into bright liquid
and in the tilted glass again,
outside of time, revolve.

---

J.C. Scharl
Poet & Playwright

Jane Clark Scharl is an American poet, playwright, and critic. Her poetry has appeared in many American and European outlets, including the BBC, The Hopkins Review, The New Ohio Review, The American Journal of Poetry, The Lamp, Measure Review, and others. Her criticism has appeared in Dappled Things, Fare Forward, Plough Quarterly, and others. Her first verse drama, Sonnez Les Matines, was published by Wiseblood Books in February 2023.

Photography by Simone Mascellari