They are statues of marble, alabaster,
and stone,
shot
full of arrows and bleeding
in
the name of a name that has no name.
Let
Jeanne d’Arc be toppled from her horse,
be
given the needle and knocked into a Thorazine dream
before
her horses trample an army of little ones
simply
going through the terrible twos.
Their
relics are skulls and bits of fingerbones,
tattered
pieces of cloth that touched a thing
that
has touched a thing wholly and completely
something
but, in the end, nothing.
Let
Augustine turn back upon himself
and
take a lover or two or three
before
he can condemn the centuries
to
the agony of not or a flower
blossoming
into nothing more than rot.
I
do not believe in them except for you and me
and
everyone else who has the audacity
to
live and die, to be sold “as is,”
to
be the I am, the perfection of imperfection
found
in the roots of a tree, a pebble of bone
that
walked before it limped and was consecrated
by
simply, through decay, going home—
going
home as is, going home.
~William Hammett
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