Descent
“…he went and made
proclamation to the spirits in prison, who in former times did not obey.”
1 Peter 3.19
(Rilke)
Seduced,
finally, he fled
that
pale, thin body and all the suffering
it
endured. Up, he went. He put it all
behind
him. Even the darkness was afraid
and
hurled winged bats at that
blood-drained
body lying there.
At
night, dread surged
in
the veins and membranes of their wings,
wings
that fluttered
and
twitched in remembrance
of
that pain which lies
with
the body—both of them
dead
and cold.
Even
the very air darkened
and
felt sorrow for this flesh.
In
the night, the dark animals—
driven
by the moon—
wailed
and
went stupid with grief.
Maybe
his freed spirit
meant
to wander about
in
the bare-lit countryside,
moving
and doing as shadows do
at
night. What he suffered
was
enough. What
moved
in the night—
these
shadowy figures—
were
gentle to him
and
he, in turn, longed
to
embrace them
as
a room embraces mourners.
Beneath
it all, the earth—
thirsty
after draining his wounds—
cracked
and split open.
In
the abyss, a voice
cried
out. No stranger
to
anguish, he heard
and
understood
that
hell howled for him
to
finish what
began
with his first
movement
of pain, hoping
their
pain would end
when
his finally did.
Still,
the fear of pain reigned
for
the moment. Down, his spirit
plummeted,
weighed
by
exhaustion. And there,
he
walked impatiently
through
the rain of amazed expressions
from
those sighing shadows
who
stood about, shocked.
Among
them, he set
his
gaze upon that first man of the earth.
He
ran! his stride taking him
deeper.
There, he was swallowed
by
the darkness. He then reappeared,
only
to be swallowed once more,
this
time into the wreckage of the deepest places.
Finally,
up he went, up
over
the voices pouring out
as
he climbed. With them,
hands
grasped in his hands, through
the
sounds and sights, he rose
toward
that sturdy place
of
his lying down. There,
not
breathing or blinking,
he
stood up without support,
owning
all anguish. Silent.
Copyright
© 2014 by Jamie Parsley (from That Word)
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