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Pilgrimage
Member Elite

since 2001-12-04

Posts 3945
Texas, USA

0 posted 2006-06-15 04:48 PM

Oungan

He was a priest in those days,
before the new king came.

Before the stones rolled away
and the seals were broken
he spoke for the damned,

the remnant,
the offal that
washed up on the sands.

He was a priest
in those days.

He raised what passed for hands
to what then passed for heaven
and called

in heavy, rolling tones

for vengeance
on the righteous sons of gods
who could not find him,

could not see him
for the light that shone
like glare of glory
from their empty eyes.

He was a priest

in those days.

***

Now he sits and rocks,
rocks his skinny body
grips his claws in armpits,
folded in himself.

He stinks
and hopes that heaven
smells him.

He whines
and knows that no one hears.
He moans
and knows that no one cares.

Sometimes he sings,

a cracked and thready tenor

scrabbling through the hot and humid night
like a cricket sawing
in his niece’s bedroom.

She grins her snaggle jackal grin
and pulls the filthy pillow
close against her cheek

and heaves her long lean body
across the sweaty sheets
in rhythm to his music.

When she’s had too much to drink
sometimes she calls out,
“Ride me!”

But that’s a holy thing
and not for drunken women
too lazy
for the washing.

Nan (Pilgrim variety)