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.