Clip Board
Part of a collection I am putting together for publication under the mentorship of Bohdan Piasecki, funded by The Arts Council, this piece ties together some of the threads which will run through the edit, hopefully.
Ya Mubdi’u. Ya Mubdi’u.
In Jesus’ name.
I open myself as a channel to The Light.
I laid hands and
prayed at the altar of every guise of god
for the poppy seed heart,
like knocking different doors
or windows
for a way
in; an answer;
for a life to be held
for longer
for the chance
we could give
it. A name
not yet formed, not
chosen,
but I thought
of its heart
like a gritty seed
and searched
for it in clots of blood.
But how should I address The Maker
when I force
my way into her House
with borrowed keys
and claim familiarity?
Every face I see is a mask
I fix; a mask
to match taught words.
Even Reason, turns her back
as I, trapped in the wings,
watching smoke billow,
watching mirrors twist
pray anyway.
Ya Mubdi’u. Ya Mubdi’u.
In Jesus’ name.
I open myself as a channel to The Light.