MELISSA GREEN
from
Akeldama
Her shadow like a spider crept along the wall
into her woolen sleeve, and crawling crabwise
then contrived a nest and sank into the breast
of Heloise to gnaw her health away.
She whitened like a Korae on the Parthenon.
Now death has put a thumbprint on my brow.
It
burns, like any brand of slavery.
I wait, not for a tete-a-tete with God
but for the day when
my
shadow will rise up
and lie across my flesh, embracing me,
until my soul, uncomforted, can't bear
the weight of so much nothingness, and dies.
My eyes are stinging now, as if the sands
of Egypt had been blown there by some storm.
I want to pray. The way she taught me, hands
together on my lips, but Christ, the words
refuse
to
leave my throat, they're choking me.
Quadrigesima means forty days
abandoned in the desert. Help me pray.
The limner's prayer is wormwood in my mouth.
Bless this awkward chronicle, 0 Lord.
Illuminate my heart and guide my hand.
Cast off Your smallest boat, so long belayed.
Hurl me up from where my wrists are chained.
Breathe upon my face - this flame, the wax,
a moth of prayer that's singed upon my lips -
for I'm the candle's fire and the wick's
translucent flesh, its penitential leap
toward glory. Sear my sinful heart. Consume
its embered doubt. My savage spirit knows
that
this
is death, both bed and board the same,
a cornucopia of bitterness.
Not You but Satan taught my cell to spawn
such darkness. All eternity is here:
