by E.C. Traganas
An Easter candle satin-bowed
My eyes alive within the flame
I am the soul that burns the wax
The smokeless feather, whitened plume.
The eyes that see, the Time has torn
A hole within the canopy.
The hall is large, the bloodstone rugs
Trod feet of clay and pews of wood.
Ruby shrine, glass of jeweled
Facets staining marbled tiles.
Priests berobed threaded gold
Chanting charms of bearded breath.
The candles quiver in the sand.
Majesty of light, the congregation gasps!
A solitary flame ascends
The vast and domed nave.
No effort spent, my eyes arise:
I am suspended in mid-air
One foot, one shoulder past the rest.
The tops of heads descend below
I fly like incense, shaft of light,
No weight, no flesh can hold me back.
A silent hush — my wings are splayed
The thoughts of peers sling
Ropes that pin me to the ground.
I am rebuked, the torch is snuffed.
No boldness — only eye to eye intoning
until Death, humility, to part.