Crucifix
by Lee Nash

Torn water, like the curtain to your sanity,

mends itself, needing no silver needle

to pierce the satin skin or blue or gold

or purple binding thread, for the guileless mouth of

 

the river will always swallow what you give it,

digesting precious metal as easily

as the core of an apple or the

scattered seeds of an overhanging willow tree,

 

and offer only ripples, like the curious

brainwaves of the mad, that sit with arched backs

on the decking, knitting sacred prayer-mats

off tangled cones of yarn, station after station.

 

When it’s mirror-calm, you will see the reflection

of your fallacy, for this still water

holds no answers; it is not living, and

cannot judge you, or return anything to you.

 

But if determined dredging finds no bridge exists

in the holy text, you will find one here,

next to where you purposely let go – at

Jesus Green, where the past lies in the sand and silt –

 

and if your heart so desires, you can walk across

and forget the loss of your beautiful dust;

the heavenly configuration

that could never ease the disturbance of your soul.

 

First published in Subprimal PoetryArt spring issue, 2014.

 

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