Work Text:
Dispose of his vessel.
Ishim gives the order casually,
casually— the death of the
body housing Akobel
no more significant than
the death of an ant.
You grab the body under one arm;
Jehoel under the other.
Gloves, the fashion of this era,
spare you touching flesh
to defiled flesh.
A flap of wings lands you
deep inside the woods.
Leaves crunch under shoes;
a squirrel scrambles away,
rustling the underbrush as it goes.
A flock of crows watches the proceedings
with interest.
A man offers himself to Heaven, and
Heaven makes him food for carrion birds.
A man offers himself to Heaven, and
Heaven does not speak his name.
There is a wrongness here
that festers.
Ishim confirms the nephil’s death,
and the wrongness festers;
you return to Heaven, your vessel
ensconced-dreaming-silent
within your innermost rings,
and the wrongness festers
and the wrongness festers
and the wrongness festers.
In a place where you won’t
be seen by your brothers,
you allow your vessel to wake.
In a place where you won’t
be heard by your brothers,
you confess to her:
With your hands I have slain
the righteous with the wicked.
And you don’t know it yet,
but this woman
(whom one day you will treasure
above all the Host)
has already forgiven you.