“Magician of the Cut Glass Cult” by Nathan Hassall
Magician of the Cut Glass Cult
Men stand outside the house:
glass raining into their singing throats.
It all started with a word — a cross,
slung up a tree, hanging by its wooden tongue.
Whatever god steps in their path,
I'm told, will have nails drummed through flesh and bone.
I am covered in that-which-cannot-be-known of water,
thirst clotting my teeth.
Under me, soil clumped and seedless,
begging something, anything, to grow in it.
Still I praise the garden for dying.
Praise the ochre sap sloping down the eucalyptus.
Praise each time my belly is fat with bread and honey,
surrounded by family's laughter.
Perhaps it was the glass that smashed
on the peripheries of this vision
that ripped my eyes awake:
the bone-hued tyrant of the night sky
launching a wave into my socket.
I throw open the front door,
the men pour in,
singing the songs of prophets in tongues
of light. I offer them to sit.
The spark in the hearth
leaps to their mouths.
We eat roast potatoes,
drink wine. I say nothing, they,
exchanging their insider news,
gesture towards the Bible on the coffee table.
By dessert, they sing again.
The ceiling crashes open.
Fire and rain bullet the earth. A word
lodges in my throat. It blossoms
syllable by syllable. Inside it, I am cut
into almost nothing.
Almost: I am singing.
Almost: The cross drips off my tongue.
They stare at me, these men,
sing louder, move closer.
A wing drapes my shoulder.
We are not the killer of gods, one says,
dragging me over the hill.
Photo Credit: Staff