by Pavel Chichikov
We've grilled lamb steaks on the back porch
While the turkey cock and gander strutted
Past the sheep fold and the lambing pen
It was still possible to understand your words
Your movements like a pendulum
Swung back and forth, but not too far
For that which makes you move could not
Unless the current, supercharged
Moved your arms and legs in semi-circles
That which makes you move could lock you into place
Freeze you fast
As if the flesh and blood were ice
As if the body were a wooden hull
Stuck fast inside the freezing plate
Of an early arctic autumn
He does this to us, over and again
Takes the wonderful and plastic flesh
And shatters it like frost-bound brick
Why does He do this to us?
What is the point, the plan, the metaphor
The fact of so much mutilation?
Listen now, I know that He exists
And where and what He is cannot be said
Except for joy and many colors
I think there is a banderole, a staff
That's fastened to a socket love which may be drawn
The flag and script of our beginning
And you will ripple move and wave, He said
But now you are the cross I died upon
Wood, stricken, full of blood
Visit Pavel's website at Grey Owl Press.