By Neena Grewal, TIWP Student
i write only in poetic prose,
because in my mind’s eye i see no rhyme or reason
that could flow as smoothly across
the page as words in the way God intended.
words stuttering from the mouth,
trickling through humming sinew and
sturdy bone to kiss the lips farewell in agony
that they will not meet again.
words that dance and fade,
quick as an oiled wick, in the air
that taunts the breath in our bodies.
words, with no thought
but the passive order
to move sound against throat and
release garble to the world.
i write only God’s words,
gentle and precise,
harsh and uncertain,
a mountain to climb with sweet river and bloodied meat.
i will dip my pen in the endless eye of the doe,
sprawling my letters into its pelt.
many will snap and whine for the deer,
but they as wild beasts
cannot see the work done in a divine name,
from a divine hand, created for a divine world.
the tundra is a temple,
kept sacred by those
who live in understanding with the lawless force of God,
who does not bend to the will
of any creature built by their hands.
the howl of wolves is a rising song of praise,
the huff of a buck a solitary prayer.
we look, always,
in awe as the light vibrant in hues dances across the stars.
the sky is the body of God,
stretching too far for any to see
with eyes not yet divine.
and though we know our God’s language,
to speak it is impossible
without first melting to the sun and reeling in the tides.
and once your tongue does not
flick against your teeth
and the words of language are
dissipated in the wind,
will you speak in God’s tongue.