David Fine
"We all who descend from the seed of Adam are born flesh from flesh.
For though we are composed of a soul and a body, yet we feel nothing but
the flesh, so that to whatever part of man we turn our eyes, it is impossible
to see anything that is not impure, profane, and
abominable to God."
—John Calvin
Flesh hangs heavily
on those who seek the light. Flesh festers;
flesh fades
with the fetishes of this world.
In the beginning
words wrapped the word. Thou shalt nots,
need nots, ought tos incarcerated
divinity. Goeth;
doeth;
loveth . . . hallowed imperatives blanketed the earth,
the body,
with a veil of sin till every turn
turned transgression. Rules of
the dead relegated reality
to
inhumane heights. The world
too weary, wretched—Jesus
takes to the skies—holy,
holy,
holy—shedding the body
like worn-out serpent skin.
In the beginning
was Christ with a bottle of Hydrogen peroxide
washing away
the blood, emptying the cross
of the flesh.
But in the middle
words will never right my soul. Flesh
hangs too heavily; the earth pulls
too tightly. The sky
can never wash away my sins. The air and
all the spirits,
a gale of the strongest kind,
will not so much as
blow one speck of dirt from under
my fingernails.
In the beginning is
the incarnated word—a promise
wrapped in flesh. Piously I flagellate
neural axons, the synapses and dendrites,
through which two thousand years of lies flow like
truth. Cerebral mortification—a Christ in mind
to Emmanuel in entrails—
my flesh
yearns for Christ's
breath
to warm it.
In the middle
I wait as open-wombed Mary
to conceive.
Until I wrap my flesh around that blessed promise
I will contemplate only
the whiteness of Christ's semen.
Only as sanguine hypocrite do I take up the pen.