This then is the perfect penetration we are all searching for, the arrow in the eye of the beholder, the way of doubting Thomas’ digit, the plunging into entombed darkness knowing we shall rise again. This enclosed, cloistered warmth, the smooth-walled womb-heart of God, the belly of the whale and the mouth that is on fire for truth. A homing instinct that makes us snuggle into duvets, curl wet sand around our feet, fold our palm over a pebble, run our tongue around our teeth. Here we are wrapped and swaddled, safe and held, in the bosom of our maker, in the silent cell.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015