Wei Tai Ting-I

Gospel

 
 
 

The neon crucifix draws

in the evening that accumulates like the charge

of sediment that slowly

breaks a dam. Clumps of weeds flash

down the muddy river.

A choir of assembled whispers flows

through the corridors like schoolkids

who end up different, reaching the other side

magnified and distorted,

as if one saw darkly, through

a loudspeaker. The slack-jawed

dog cannot help but drool

when the bells thunder and the gospel

crinkles its third eye

in contemplation. Not a lot

is necessary, but to strain the skin

of the page, untaught

but taut against its hunchbacked

spine, released, then shivering

like the string of a bow.

Now we know. The difference between love

and mania is foldable. An empty pulpit

preaches to the congregation:

pews of hymnbooks spread open

like faces. The grass is ready, the ink

is dead. Cross the door. Open yourself

into half. Kneel down, and kiss the ground.

The evening dew will blur the words,

the paper will rot into the soil, and then

a tree will grow. A bird will alight on its branches. You must go.

 

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