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Poems by Adrienne Lewis
Limbo
“The souls in purgatory are enveloped, as it were, in a thick shroud into which they have wound themselves while living here on earth.” — Secrets of Purgatory
Words here are small stones, chipped around the edges.
Every thought is audible. What you notice first are the imperfections in speech. Nouns appear a translucent gray, vaporous. Adjectives smolder in shades of orange and red. The way verbs shimmer with a melting blue radiance, how they curve around like a cloak binding all language to our transfigured flesh. As we speak, we fit ourselves against one another. No soul is without consolation. The result is a mosaic. Think stained glass, and consider grace: The restoration of each pane, the light urgently offering to permeate the unyielding, minerals of our opaque design. Communion Protestants don’t let the flesh melt
on their tongue; they chew it
once a month on a given Sunday. It took me a long time
to grow accustom to the sparseness
of Baptist remembrance in the church
my husband’s family attends. They are touchy-feely
with a good morning and a hug
replacing the solemn sign of peace. Catholics taste
the mystery of the Body each week; the bitterness
never becomes more palatable
as you slip the thin wafer in,
hold it still with your tongue, let it dissolve.
Dislodging small, sour pieces
sticking to the roof of your mouth
throughout the service, you are reminded
of the vinegarations you have caused others to ingest
during the week, the many ways you’ve fallen
away from the piousness required,
and the comfort of absolution that helps you swallow now. Lunar You have to consider the effects of light on the soul
when you think of Mary, called Magdalene,
and the way He must have looked ablaze
standing there, the sun rising dull
in the background. You can almost see her in the garden,
eyes narrowed against nimbus, sheltered by the hand
moving forward to touch Him
when He speaks her name. The moon gives no light
tonight. We peer through windows
trying to make out cambers, the umbra
glowing against silver radiance: A face emerging
through darkness. Redemption;
I ask for it to fall on me like a shadow.
We all watch the night’s lantern in the sky
from porches and parked cars. You can see what
made her reach toward Him; the moon’s right hand
clear at last.
Adrienne Lewis is the author of two collections of poetry: Coming Clean (Mayapple Press, 2003) and Compared to This (Finishing Line Press, 2005). Her work has also appeared in numerous literary journals and online magazines. Currently, she teaches English at Kirtland Community College in Roscommon, Michigan. To learn more about her work please visit her website.
Copyright © 2006 by Adrienne Lewis. All rights reserved.
This page published July 2006. |
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