To Forge the Gate, Its Keyhole, Its Pearl
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We need not see to whom. We need not see. To whom do we pray? Faith: one wing air-wide, the other canted, arrow through it a counter wing. To obey the unseen is no more counter-instinct than to disobey. Wounded, verily believe, verily don’t. Either way, you will hunger or hunger will weigh you down.
If satiety relied on faith that in my closed hand is a meal, assuagement—: tomahawk, dull ax, desperate strength, my fist lopped off to the ground, its apple, amaranthine possibilities. Open the fingers, thumb. Inside, so much nothing, so much enough. What is real that is made real by belief: you will find your way back. You will return. You can, again, be whole.
We need not know to where the return. We need not know the way back, the reason, the end-point. Take back what you said, that there is truth and you know it. You needn’t understand how you are not whole and how returning will change that. You need not attempt to fix the unfixable wing. To straighten each queered pinion. My hand opens freely. Won’t you eat? [End Page 801]
Phillip B. Williams is a native of Chicago and a Cave Canem fellow. He is author of Bruised Gospels. His work has also appeared in such periodicals as African American Review, Boxcar Poetry Review, Sou’wester, and Painted Bride Quarterly. He currently serves as poetry editor of Vinyl Poetry.
