White Elephants

The unthinkable

tastes like the peak of a fable, rolled around in

my beautiful mouth like anise, a cold syrup

pooling at the base of my throat, spreading across my collarbone.

Whose hand is this, linking with mine?

Whose voice is this, whispering in my ear, asking me

to pray? I've forgotten too many of you

to keep track of anymore.

Outside, I feel the earth binding itself, ribs knitting, scabs

sugaring over the wounds. The oak doors are seven hundred years old,

the woman tells me; it is late at night, and very cold

and the cathedral is a stone mountain pressing down on us.

I hadn't meant to stop here, I almost feel the need to tell her this.

What brings you here tonight, she asks, and I suppose for a moment

she is a nun, sent out to fetch the lost souls of the night.

It is my birthday, I answer, as if this explains anything.

Many returns of the day,

she says.

Yes. I say. Yes. and thank you.

She leaves when the bells begin to toll, and I shiver

at being alone.

Carved granite faces stare down. I feel a hand on my shoulder,

turn, gasp and roll my eyes.

Heat down the back of my neck.

A stitch bursts. Somewhere a rock rolls down a hillside.

The bell rings itself out, the city sleeps on, ignorant.

Deep breath now, and the cold sliding up my calves through my shoes.

Pray? That's your advice?

Well, I've heard worse. Pick a god, then.

I was eleven years old when a grown man told me I was beautiful

and it all went downhill after that. But it was like sunshine,

like a wheatfield in the summer, the coast nearby and filling the air with

the idea of

brine and slippery things. Yes, I could have laid down in the field

among the stalks of wheat, hidden. I know that now. I could have even filled my pockets and gone home and made bread

and sat in a chair in front of the oven and felt the warmth of created things, of

handcraft and earth. Something at the back of the tongue, sticky,

salty, will not go down. Instead I stood and waited for the colors of names of god

to swirl about me like a cloak, wrap me like loving arms, lead me past walls

of stone into a circle of people who also feel the blood of the earth

coursing in underground veins, and light at all hours

and whose voices sang in the endless blackness between stars, calling or praying

to the god of being listened to for once,

to the god of a peaceful and loving family of your own choosing,

to the god of remaining small and overlooked,

to the god of finally, dear god, getting something I want,

to the god of knowing better next time.

Love twisting like a hand around a shepherd's crook,

the fangs of forgiveness sunk deep and drinking,

the throat choked with

almost words.

The smell of bread, of cold wet stone,

licorice.