In the Dwelling of Dagon

I imagine the discord of horror-film strings,

quiet then rising as the ark begins to glow.

Darkness starts to dwindle; the radiation grows

to cast half-dead light on Dagon, that ugly thing.

The scratching sound of rats' feet fills those riddled walls,

while fleas leave the dirty fur seeking human skin.

A pestilence then festers from that site of sin;

a bubonic burst mushrooms outward from those halls.

But for now, the city sleeps, its tumors unknown,

dormant, not yet blackening the beds of lovers.

As on Passover, the unseen reaper hovers,

sneaking his seeds into the marrow of their bones.

So, my child, when you kneel before the modern ark,

the tabernacle, make sure He is respected,

for He who heals you here is He who infected

that satanic city, that dwelling in the dark.

I Am Sinai

My stones are smeared with mud and slime,

my slopes worn down with wind and rain,

my summit dark with dirt and grime,

                        

but burning shrubs declare His name

and prophets dwell within my caves

when God descends on me in flames,

and as His flames roar and crackle,

smoke like incense hides His presence,

making me His tabernacle.

Inside the Vacant Tabernacle

Wombs emptied too soon

like homes beneath the Quabbin—

a water-filled wound.

Empty Rooms

In the hush before the exhale,

the apparent emptiness of lungs

actually saturated with air and life,

whispers sneak out of the silence,

converge, and await their birth as words.

Other vacant spaces shush in expectation:

starved stomachs, aborted bellies’ absences,

empty rooms, derelict ships, deserted tombs,

old battlefields with blood dissolved to dirt,

prisons that could not contain apostles

aided by angels typically invisible,

and the Good Friday tabernacle—

not inhabited, not abandoned,

but a haunted, hallowed box.

And these words cannot confine you;

you refuse to conform to their content

or disfigure yourself to fit their form.

Still, they transfigure in the stillness

of their seemingly hollow syllables,

conveying the echo of the voice

that called forth Creation in the void.

After the Wine

When the festivities are over,

the upper room empty,

the singing stopped,

the table cleared,

will you leave me alone in the garden?

When the procession is gone,

the tabernacle vacant,

the organ silenced,

the altar stripped,

will you leave me alone in the garden?

When the stars are falling,

the houses abandoned,

the radios broken,

the sky scoured,

will you leave me alone in the garden?

Will your eyes close

and your breathing slow

on the night I need you the most?