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for Elisha and John

Anjali Robinson-Leary

after Go Tell it On the Mountain

gentle desire stirs in my chest!

follow me out from the grayed city and into the brilliant plains that we will find beyond its walls.

soon we will reach the path unbeaten and unblazed-------------- what we make will offset the beauty of the 

eastern shore,

what should beauty have to do with love?

if we be beautiful, may it be despite ourselves.

O, precious desire has given way to breaking tissue; white doves flurry out of my lungs.

breaking skin; these doves fly straight through bone and tendon,

encircling themselves in a dancing song going up and up, kissing one another in white-noise joy. let me

play the dove.

with the unfolding of my wing, i will peel back your skin to reveal the rings you hide, turning

over each haunting memory in my hands, to kiss.

on my fragile, noble back i carry those hidden sentiments, they that have rooted long in the closed throat, into my nest,

placing your hand above my heart and bringing closer my beak to sing-whispher orpheus's song, summoning spring into every place of shame.

let me play the man.

trumpets overhead, perhaps in the heavens, break their fast to welcome our arrival as i carry you home, 

over the hill, diving down deep in it's shadow of a valley reminding us of how low one must be to tell

the height of highs

as we tumble down, humbly before nature's altar, the hill promises us it's shield;

let no eyes see--------- let no tongues bear witness to retell our love as gladdened myths of gods and men.

for what could be sinful here?

we need to shut our seeking eyes to pray. 

here, we are only at the mercy of our mother supreme,

beginning to feel more like two conjoined by the oneness of a single skin rather than lovers with choise.

as we stray further from the city and deeper into this world of God's,

 

as we are unable to hear the crumbling of city walls and grumbling of its sinister streets,

 

we have freed enough of our sense that we notice that in our laying beside one another, there is a union;

and when we are beyond close, practicing archery, there is, instead, a part.

 

only the shepherds and his flock pass our quiet confrontation of the will

 

only he, the shepherd, saw us take one another and ask our hushed questions, he that had seen us take one another in our eyes.

 

only he will ever know of our fast break,

 

how sensuously and sudden the brokenness of our oath came about, and apart, in the underbelly of 

God's green hill.

may that shepherd worship his lucky stars that he had not been tempted, as we had been. that he 

 

be free to draw maps with the clean wool of his profession kept in its holiness,

 

never having to bow down to stars and fear them to be a master.

never having to profess love to the sails of boats torn from oral story books, 

never to be condemned to question where god is; gasping for air between breathy prayers, 

ignoring the blood leaking from knees that have long fell and stayed put at the foot of flowerbeds, 

struggling to petition: "Lord, help my unbelief?"

that blessed fool, or perhaps that conscientious wiseman, never having face oneself as a master,

or stifle shame, plunging into the godly gap of body-bows to fill the abyss that lurks in the corner of the inquisitive mind. 

and the flock? they will bless us, sending us their ba-ba's to bless our union,

pitting themselves firmly against the will of the dusky cities. 

that they may minister this consummation of flesh and the soft green that lifts the flesh.

here we lay; far away from the ill temples of men acting in bad faith

so far that the shepherd may think us lost, and wonder how we found ourselves in Zion,

leaving him below this heavy cloud to wonder how the unholiest of Men could find

themselves amongst the godly hills of Zion.

cloaked and covered in the blanketing arms of the most brazen of affectations, the

love of the Übermensch.

may we be joined in prayer to remind them only this:

how long, O Lord, holy and true?

dost thou not judge and avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth?

may we be granted the light and life to all He brings,

risen with healing in His wings!

Anjali Robinson-Leary

Anjali is a sophomore Philosophy and Interdisciplinary Humanities, Ancient and Modern Double Major with a concentration in the Arts, Language, and Archaeology from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Anjali serves as Editor-in-Chief for The Amistad and is also a writer for The Ginger Root, a student-led publication, and The Moorland-Spingarn Research Center’s newsletter. 

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