by Amanda Chiado
It’s all in what you worship, the delicate shift in darkness
when you enter a sacred room that is strung up with a body
that indefinitely has its mouth gaping, to let spirits in or out—
to offer a portal for prayers that vibrate within the bones
of the house. All the disbelievers are braided like history,
trailing away tears in the hurricane. Without hushing, wear the loveliest
of recollections, the ghosts of animals who breathe necessity,
who whisper their songs like a hot exhalation in the desert dawn.
If you hear water, the devil’s taken his dress off. If you hear laughter,
you are not close enough. Something is in danger, and when it is you,
we will send you up on the weight of a flame, repeat tremendous the error
of your being, and then drop you like a meteor, meaningless. If no one
cares for you, the devil loses interest. Worship is a wage, a barter.
If you want to be swept up in the crime, wave your barrel
like you’re never going to be seen again—a mother wants to stop
the incidentals, and blood. My gathered hands are a compass
seeking the light which renders itself in forms of confession.
My knees are pools of weight—towers of exit, chamber, cylinder,
click, release. We can agree I have been so wrong, kissing the fists
that in the dark were shaped like wings−but light, light is ever king.