Читать книгу & in Open, Marvel - Felicia Zamora - Страница 12

Sacrament

Before tolls deepen the landscape,

the handshakes, the sorry stitching

in furrowed brows, the church settles

& you hear the steeple sigh. Air steps

closer to you, like a child approaches,

hesitant, question on her lips. To grow here—

a town no bigger than a thumb, you tasted

the Body & licked your teeth after wine.

What you’ve done & undone

for sacrament. As a child you chanted

the Nicene Creed, while you undressed

a boy across from you with fervid pupils

& tingles between your thighs. Confirmation

liturgy commensal of body & blood: faith

in the pastor’s lack of telepathy. Innocence

laired in your temporal lobe, along with lust

& palms in sweat, aware of both.

You return to rows of slotted boxes;

parishioners’’ names: Cleveland; Lettow; Grimes—

small spaces of keeping. Places defined

by brood & lineage. Your fingers trail openings

& fall into hollow drum, drum. Your name

once aperture, an invitation; vow. Distance &

years untie the knot of place to you. Unbound

between aisles of pews, you spectator

arrive at The Last Supper, heavy frame in dip

offsets the scene. Your eyes swallow you

back to the kitchen table, to each stroke

of your mother’s hand, outlined gently; changing

brushes; capped colors labeled 1-11; a guided

masterpiece. Grandma Evelyn peering over shoulder;

unction in a simple squeeze, “A fine addition

to any home”. Home: four letters burnt

into the underside of each rib; vestige

drug with us, round & round. Dizzying affair.

Are we called—how instinct of V

dwells in the goose? Are we called home

ventricles feeding heart? O, duel system

circulating us. These bells, someday

will be yours. These bells

already yours. & home is a small round lid

paint drying inside. & with water

so elemental, discovery & rediscovery:

carillon batons & pedals play

by ghosts & echoes of ghosts.