Читать книгу Twisted Shapes of Light - William Jolliff - Страница 15

And when the day of Pentecost was fully come,they were all with one accord in one place. (Acts 2:1)

Maybe they gathered in a room just like this,

a coffee shop somewhere in Jerusalem,

not on the outskirts exactly, but just

on the seedier edge of downtown.

Maybe some sweetly pierced Martha-like

hipster was pulling fresh shots in the back,

and her sister, Our Mary of the Many Tattoos,

was already slipping the day-old scones

to the masses, those unwashed and quizzical

lovers of God who just heard the good word

that Seth had come home to this place, safe

and dry, and warmer than the sidewalk.

Some sit on tipped-back chairs, a handful rest

quasi-lotus on the floor, drumming their thighs,

growing content in their own woven grunge

(the affect turned real as the money ran out).

Then Seth takes the stage, lighting his candles,

tuning a little, then lighting some more,

the hemp and soy and happy-birthday candles,

dollar-store votives for remaindered saints.

He tries for mellow, but mellow won’t come

or won’t last past the first two tunes, no matter

how soft his Hello, everyone. If passion is

a simmering kettle of stew, his will scorch.

Before the first chorus it’s already burning:

each song is a message in tongues. And then

one little stick of scented oil glows brighter.

It rises, floats, and settles on his dreads.

The big bare feet begin to stomp, and there comes

from heaven a sound like a rushing wind,

and they are bewildered, because they all

hear him speak their own language.