by Lisa Basarab
Like a wrench turned inward
Flashing pain, and gone
Then squeezing, pounding
All of life
A grip of fear so real
That all becomes hell
Swirling, mashing black
In dreams
Nightmares without release
With jeering, fractured finger
Seeping unholy accusation
Pointing, pointing
Like a knife backstabbing
Like a serpent striking
Like a nail in my heart
A plea
To kill my God in me
To sever bonds with Him
And make of me a shade
Pulled so down
Down in mire so weak and pale
The squalid self abyss,
Marrow-deep fatigue (and
Endless night)
No light, no piercing stream of light
No hint of water
For me on a jury's slate
Only guilt
Of my own making, breaking a
Heart so cold from stone
Jabbing guilt, always guilt
Never mercy
Never.
Why no priestly absolution,
Just a toll to pay and pay?
A slim, tortuous road bending
So far, so far
You promised in His words to me
A feast on my return
A fatted calf
Not noose
To string along and up a swaying
Body in surreal ease
Poked like a child on a swing
Whee!
But the glee of games is gone
For my heart's hunt-ripped effigy
Searing, burning,
Flamed
On the spit of upright clerics
Turning folly into shame
Shame, shame!
(An ancient game.)
And so, alone, I hurt
Slipping into nowhere else to go
Except a shrinking Body
Tree-hung
Battered limbs, blood-splashed
Spittle-strewn and slung
With friends looking up
In misery
Save me, sweet Convicted One
In faint aches of rage I spew
that steal Your breath
From mine
Lift the noose away, heal the ache around
To squelch only every urge to bolt
And not Your pain
In me