our pencils to sketch concentric circles labelled consecrated,
As if the Spirit could be so easily contained. As if She were
not purple paint seeping through the page, as if
She were not the raging sea crashing through
the breakwater. We picture heaven as above
and hell as below, as far apart as east and west,
as if I am not grasping both with my fingertips.
We name the flickering flame of a candle on the altar, holy,
but not the forest fire raging across California,
not the dreams refined with fire, not the ash at our feet,
nor the soot in our lungs. Mother moon is named
hallowed. Yet in her fullness is blamed for our
madness. The silent night is the one we deem divine,
but what of the chaotic cacophony of humanity
that crowds the daylight and spills into dusk?
We call the kiss at the end of the aisle sacred, the
suckling babe blessed, but not the unzipping
of the skirt, not the sweaty palms clasped together,
not the awkward bumping of noses and hips.
Holy is the knitting together, the creation. But tell me your tale
of destruction, give me the sweet smell of decay.
Is there no glory in the coming undone? Show me the unravelling,
the mud on your boots, the blood on your face.
Show me the broken lock, the door kicked in.
Show me the sorrow you have swallowed, the joy
you’ve clenched in your fists. Show me the unfastening
of expectation, the ecstasy of release,
the wild rushing wind and tongues set ablaze.
And I will show you the face of God —
Leigha is a recovering Sunday school scholar who is learning to embrace questions without answers. Her bravest and most honest questions usually come in the form of poetry. An MSW candidate and lover of words, she believes in the power of narratives, both the personal and the collective. Born in Eastern Canada, Leigha calls the island of Newfoundland home, although these days you can find her writing and living in Dominican Republic. You can find more of her writing at leighacann.com and connect with her on twitter @leighacann