by Pavel Chichikov
THE GOSPEL OF JOHN
I saw a fly crawling on the gospel of John
Probing with its tongue
Touching the letters with its two front feet
Washing and wringing crooked legs
It staggered round and round the letters
Wondering
And as it turned in circles
All the statues of the saints in facets turned,
Appeared, and disappeared
What is this Son of Man
And how can life be everlasting life
In gut and skin?
I know the children of the soil
Have laid my eggs in many
Of the dead ones
Like me when heaven was my home
They fall, their wings unused
And all their prayers are for themselves
Probe, probe and lay,
White grubs to grow and feed
And fly away
And then the chalice of the Lord
The gold ciborium, the rings of signing priests
Flashed and startled, and the insect rose
A flash of gold and nothing more,
A sign of flesh and blood
But such that it repelled the fly
A splash of blood inside the cup
The sound of breaking flesh
And yet it rose invisible and hung its heavy legs
This will die as others do and yet
I smell no death
Nor even in the flesh, decay
And if the children drink and eat
On what should I, the clever insect, feed
And lay, and patter with my feet?
