Three prongs of a wooden pitchfork await us then, after the long and bloody climb that births a new pilgrimage. Flesh already shredded, hanging limp, needing lifting. A mock rising, a thorny gehenna, human refuse disposed of along with God’s golden boy. No longer any separation between the holy of holies and the thieving murderers, the wheat and the tares burn together, and the incense that rises opens the gates of heaven and hell, and all is let loose, so that even the moon burns and the sun melts and the curtain is unseamed.
Everything falls apart here, and the unexpectedness of its totality catches the enemy unawares, open mouthed, jaw in another dimension. All history transfixed by this pivot of pained perfection, in which everything is held together, in this eternal, beautiful, brokenness.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com