The Prophets(115)

“That you, Samuel?”

Finally, something caressed him. Not just caressed him, but coiled itself around his arm and pulled. He screamed, finally, the one word he could never utter.

Then, to his surprise, in ululation, the darkness screamed it back.





New Covenant You know who we are now.

So now you know who you are.

We are seven and we do not absolve ourselves of blame.

So you must not absolve yourself of it either, blameless though you think you are.

Listen:

Heed:

We are calling for a witness!

Ay!

We are only telling you what we know.

You have to be willing to come forth when the hands are open widest.

Why do you think we are in this clearing instead of in that other one?

We heard you sing:

Come see about us, Lord!

And that is not your song.

That is why you try to make home a paradise instead of a place where life can take root.

Yes, well.

Home is not frozen.

It is not some insect trapped in amber.

Neither is it soft like clay for you to mold to whatever shape suits you.

It is bigger than you.

Do you understand?

Home is the beginning of every possibility and here you are trying to ruin it with your limitations.

There are mountains here, too.

Do not look away.

This is not who you were supposed to be.

You disrespect artisans.

You throw stones at guardians of the gates.

You ravage the spirits too grand for the body.

You imagine your own rituals savage.

You forget the circle.

Living so far from the existence you were snatched from— a half-truth.

Also given over to.

Becoming ever more like your captors, you cannot even look your lover in the eye.

This is the mark you leave upon each other: separation.

Well, let us gather you. Come: let us gather you all.

Where you are, it used to have a name.

They found the name and hung it from trees.

Someone should call this place by its real name.

O, ordinary!

How fine and ordinary.

Hear us:

There is a darkness that moves.

It is the beginning of all things and the end of all things.

It is eternal, drawing with such great force that even light bends to its whims.

It is hands covered in oil, wiping lines across faces, pulled outward, spread like fingers, and waiting for the dawn.

It is cosmos dangling at the ends of braids, children dancing a thousand nighttimes, elders dressed in blue garments giddy to be submerged in new waters and to shed old skins.

This to the unseen.

This to the unheard.

This to the periphery people swimming between the glint of light and the bend of shadow.

In the midnight.

In the sanctity of caves.

In the private moments between lovers who have, for the first time, touched each other’s faces.

The waves crashing against the shore?

That is a language, too.

The horrible secret, children, is this: It is not you who are chained.

Remember this, for it is the key to tongue-speak.

But memory is not enough.

We are complete.

We are, all by ourselves, complete.

Do not look away.

There is a child, now, wandering in unknown woods.

Inside him, there is a wound, which you placed there, that may or may not blossom.

It may be uprooted.

Or it may be visited upon you: a kind of return, the way things often return to the hands that unleashed them.

The others, they are here with us, guarding the gates as always, pleased that a piece of them is still with you.

Would you like to feel it?

Close your eyes.

See:

The shape of suffering is not jagged.

It is not bumpy; it is not flat.

It is not even sharp.

It is round as eyes and smooth as skin.

It fits perfectly in the crook of the tongue and falls from the lips like a seeing stone.

Leave it where it lies.

Do not worry.

Hips will sway.

Heads will spin.

Arms will swing.

Oh, our bloodlings, beds will rock and it will be as close to good as our natures allow.

You will walk upright in your mother’s house!

You are trembling.

Do not be ashamed.

Tremble freely, but do not sleep.

And. Do. Not. Look. Away!

There is a sound when darkness withers.

It is a whimper, much like a slumbering baby’s, but gentler, quieter, softer in its own way, and much more tragic because unlike a baby’s, it always goes unheard.

Like the last thing they—they—said to us:





L


O


V


E.

That is the living word.

But you refused it.

Spat on it when it was shown.

Gave it the wrong cheek to kiss.

No different from the field you became, you are changed.

It is difficult

to withstand the touch

of a people who only

bring their hands together

to sow suffering

who treat

the menace that they create

like it is not their creation.