The Poet

His voice lilted, his tongue floundered to find the music that had already been shaken from the words—a cantor, a priest—without a homily. The music that rose from his throat to the air was only the atonal clunk of syllables and sounds...


Surrounding him were scenes of Christ’s death and Crucifixion. Each sliver of red and black paint pierced the silence like a hot nail through bone. The poet had no music anymore. He stood in the midst of an art museum—the scenes around him were miraculous and grave. He praised the remains—no spirit left to worship.

He crunched on bone, each black shard crackling between his molars. He recited lyrics with no melody. I sat and listened—a parishioner without baptism, a sinner without a prayer to wash over me. All I had, he had, we had were the words, each like a bone disjointed from its socket, the ligaments left in decay.

He mouthed each letter like it was as a songbird of its own. He released the flock from the prison of the page, but his efforts only made them mortal, not ethereal. They smashed to the podium, their plumes the poet’s attempt at alliteration.

The poet stood at the podium, his hands gripping the sides, confessing feelings and moods that only similes and metaphors can taste. I sat in the back—a painting of Jesus’ birth behind me—and strained to hear what I never would.

The poet cannot sing anymore.

He has no music.

We have only the staccato of his canines snapping through hollow bones. We breathe the dust of his meal and nod and applaud.

We are a tribe who can no longer hear our shaman.