Doxology of Flesh
By Rebekah Devine
A song of flesh,
of loam and clay,
a last farewell to the pomegranate tree:
disappearing into the brush
the lascivious serpent of old, its tongue
flicking back and forth,
greedily
moistening its lips.
The Deity drags his mirthless
feet, the feet he
donned to dance
a feral, fire-footed lament.
On earth, the mourners
sing, they sing
seraphic, cinder-voice-ed songs,
dying and rising like coals
under a whisper,
They sing, they sing:
The lacerations on his soles!
The perforations in his hands!
Surely the Just One will justify,
By the offering-up of life-breath,
His own being, his very body!
The offspring of the Just One
He shall see, by
The sweat of his blackened brow.
The slowing of the tabor,
the halting of the
feet, the feet that
deigned to dance
a song of fetid dust.
But, lo! the ancients
sing, they sing,
and cry, cry out
heraldic, warrior-wild chants,
melting the mountains like wax
under a wick,
They cry, they cry:
The cicatrix in his side!
The sinews knitting in his hands!
Surely the Deity has justified
By the raising-up of his Anointed,
His own being, his very body!
The offspring of his Anointed
He shall raise, by
The impulse of his Spirit
leaping, leaping
in Adam’s limbs, cantillating in
Adam’s bones, flinging-forth
songs of the body,
dancing doxologies
of flesh.
