The gray wood of the oak stump, dappled brown,
stopped
the axhead, which would not be stopped
by what lay between it and the cross-hatched oak:
fine, white
neck feathers, almost down, were sliced into the ax
wound,
fluttering. I’d call it fluttering
if they were large enough to flutter. They weren’t.
Swaying, if they were tall enough to sway,
and they weren’t. Riffling, if there were more of them.
Flailing, if the wind were fierce, and it hadn’t been.
But even with no word for it, white fluff, blood-glued
into the slit,
tangled in the wind’s breath daintily though I could
feel no wind,
could only see a movement for which I owned no
name
move across a stump for which I have acquired too
many:
altar, eschara, shrine, tope, chancel table-
the holy place as abbattoir
a spot where the gods whose blood I shared
took life, rendered it sustenance, placed it before me,
and made me pause to bless it as if it weren’t
inherently blessed, teaching me not gratitude
but the forms of gratitude, so when, with age, I came
to thanksgiving, blessing, praise, I’d know them for
what they are and how
to perform their offices.
Mensa, predella, delubrum,
the Lord’s table-
so I profaned the stump. I stomped on it,
and sang. I flapped my elbows, crowed.
I knelt and pressed my hot face on the stump,
then stood and cut it off. I raced down the yard
in crazy circles, blood spurting from my neck,
and when I, flailing, dropped dead, I stood,
walked back to my imaginary head, and kicked it,
kicked the fallen ball to the foot of an unstumped
oak
that accepted my offering with indifference,
and the earth’s breath that I could not feel
fluttered, swayed, riffled the dry leaves,
touching each tongue separately, beseeching it to
speak,
while I, with vulgar words I would have spoken
if I had known them, praised its silence, and at my
feet
my severed head laughed until I also laughed.
I picked it up, replaced it on my shoulders,
and merged once more our two diverging laughters.
Stump
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