Twisted Shapes of Light. William Jolliff

sit on tipped-back chairs, a handful rest

      quasi-lotus on the floor, drumming their thighs,

      growing content in their own woven grunge

      (the affect turned real as the money ran out).

      Then Seth takes the stage, lighting his candles,

      tuning a little, then lighting some more,

      the hemp and soy and happy-birthday candles,

      dollar-store votives for remaindered saints.

      He tries for mellow, but mellow won’t come

      or won’t last past the first two tunes, no matter

      how soft his Hello, everyone. If passion is

      a simmering kettle of stew, his will scorch.

      Before the first chorus it’s already burning:

      each song is a message in tongues. And then

      one little stick of scented oil glows brighter.

      It rises, floats, and settles on his dreads.

      The big bare feet begin to stomp, and there comes

      from heaven a sound like a rushing wind,

      and they are bewildered, because they all

      hear him speak their own language.

      The Labyrinth Speaks

      I knew they would come from the very pour.

      I could just as easily have been the floor

      of someone’s garage, a bicycle rack,

      a boat ramp, a barn, a sidewalk, sure to crack—

      so this path seemed my destiny

      charted in the stars before I came to be.

      In the circling strokes of the stainer’s brush

      I knew each pilgrim’s sole, each holy touch,

      and felt each weight, the tapping of each stick,

      the pacing desperation of the sick,

      the sorrow of lovers, their bitterness,

      each shivering touch, each unreturned caress,

      the leaden chest that heaves when faith is lost,

      the hollowness of unbelief, the cost

      that must be paid for quiet vanities,

      the rage that robs the over-wise of peace.

      Some come to beg forgiveness, some to rant.

      Some come to pray; some come because they can’t.

      I serve them all, and on my concrete way

      they learn as much as their steps will let me say.

      Like any winter road, I’ve felt the burn of salt,

      the throb of loss, when the heart’s like a vault

      without a key. But sometimes doors fall open.

      I’m only the stone, but I help that happen.

      Big Bang

      Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. (Matthew 5:15)

      Just when I’m tempted to believe

      that my fundamentalist neighbors

      have taken the admonition to heart—

      Hope is dangerous, kill it young—

      I hike by their church-school at noon

      and hear the holy thunder: children

      file silently through the fire doors, then

      explode like a storm of Bazooka bubbles,

      blue plaid jumpers and creased khakis

      scattering and rolling like billiard balls

      across the felt-green, tightly-cropped park

      of a playground, jet-propelled by shouts

      that echo with a morning’s elation,

      cries as bright and lusty as those of their

      publicly-educated peers, maybe more.

      The air is electric with the freshest

      of flesh, swinging and hanging, even

      dancing from the bars of parti-colored,

      evangelically-maintained jungle gyms,

      while rippling clouds of sweaty freedom

      rise over the undulating mass

      of limbs, until at two bells they fall

      back to the quiet brick, exhausted

      but not quite dim, new creations,

      the fire of damp cheeks and matted hair

      bearing testimony that the lamp

      within cannot be wholly dimmed,

      even by bushels of the darkest belief.

      The Elders Visit

      And such a joy they are to see. Their shirts

      alone are worth my time, such blinding white

      against their creased black slacks, sensible shoes,

      and shining paperbacks: keys for my salvation.

      Come in, fellows! I ask about their mission,

      their months away from family and home,

      and how the Lord is blessing them in Oregon.

      And I ask them to tell me about God. They do.

      But sir, have you read the Book of Mormon?. . .

      Hmm. So this Smith, was he quite the scholar

      of old Semitic languages? No, not at all!

      Here their smiles bloom, their eyes turn to pearl:

      No, they say, just a third grade education. . . .

      The elders are sure I’ll share their wonder.

      And so I do, recalling deadly afternoons

      in Dr. Reader’s dungeon, each minute an hour,

      each semester at least a millennium,

      offering up my tortured mistranslations

      of Plato, Sophocles, worn pieces of Xenophon,

      sweating each particle and grave accent,