After the final ascent, Enoch’s eyes open on the womb of Solomon’s temple— a cube of fire, an aperture into the throngs— all those dancing figures. Did you think the godly mysteries would be bodies thrumming to the chords of creation? I want to know what it means to pull light from dark, how we were woven before sun and moon bore sway over tides and land— what is scribed on the fleshy walls of my womb. Show me in what perfect script atoms say yes and atoms say no to formulas unseen yet recited over and over until the universe is one swelling requiem.
Holy of Holies
Lovely poem. I'll keep thinking about that final line for weeks to come. Cheers!