Story of How the World Closes

                                                                                How to make Communion wafers:
                                                                                1. Mix a paste of flour and water
                                                                                2. Press with a hot iron to emboss the Cross


first the wrists get thin
wafer thin
translucent so
light shines through
          potato chips
          waxed paper
          linen handkerchief
          grape leaves in the sun
one wrist laid atop the other
a humble prayer
secret religiosity
practiced anywhere
          waiting on a bench
          at the typewriter
          on the edge of the bed after making love
eyes open or closed
doesn’t matter where, how
that is first

then after the wrists get thin and the waxed paper and making love
the lone door closes slowly
so slowly every millisecond of the creak
is heard with peculiar singularity
and the entire aural event
radical as hell
is transposed
into a riot-causing symphony
Stravinsky on opening night
four long movements that
sound like a door creaking
avant-garde, all the rage
that is second

then after the lone door closes slowly and the creak and Stravinsky
the circumference of the last window
(as on a fishing boat or cruise ship)
begins to shrink
from a telescopic view of the ocean
to a peephole on an apartment door
          pencil eraser
          bobby pin
until there is only a pinpoint
of anything other than darkness
yet it is not light that is left inside
it is the paste of Communion wafers
that is third

then after the circumference of the last window shrinks and the pinpoint and wafer paste
the world closes
because man cannot live on paste alone
light is needed
          an intermittent sunbeam or prism
          a window the diameter of a straw
          one eye an apparition of heaven
even if recalled only in sleep or drunkenness
even if only quasi-believable
there must remain access to somewhere other than here
there must remain access to somewhere other than here
          a window, pinpoint, humble prayer
          waiting on a bench
          before the wrists get thin
          waxed paper, bullet
          all the rage
          riot, riot, riot
that is fourth

(c) 2013

Published by Marie Marchand

I write poetry to capture beauty in language and imagery in hopes of healing myself and the world. Poetry for me has always been a seeking. An effort to come closer to beauty, to explicate beauty, to behold it in words. I wish to formalize beauty, to give it a title and empower it to go forth into the world. I want to give it shape and lend it the capacity for remembrance. Poetry captures essence. Without essence, there is nothing worth saving. John Keats and William Wordsworth are my favorite poets. My absolute favorite poem to read aloud is Wordsworth's Lines, otherwise referred to as Tintern Abbey. And it must be read aloud at least annually for uplift of the soul. I have shared my poetry through various means including handmade chapbooks, readings, and publication. All the poetry posted on this site is written and copyrighted by me. This collection represents about half of my poetry.