Oath

Give me the word that holy woman
said when she burned her hand.
I need to hear the syllables
that a saintly, perfect soul
uses to shoot the pain into space,
that makes the sniggering Devil
cover his mouth and turn a color
which doesn't have a name.

The thing of four letters
erupting from the geyser
when life crawled from the sea
onto a sharp, cold rock—
I'd share that sacred sound
with seven billion friends,
some smacked by black storms,
others standing in hot shame
when soldiers have had their fun.

Is it a suitable thing
to teach a toothless baby?
Is that the question you ask?
And you assume that the kid
doesn't already know it
from when she was plopped out
into searing white light?

'Cause I think you know the word
but are too shocked to share it
and hope I'll go away
so you won't bear
the responsibility of truth.

back to issue

Richard Magahiz tries to live an ordered life in harmony with all things natural and created but one that follows unexpected paths. He's spent much of his time wrangling computers as a day job but is working on a way to center life around other things. His work has appeared at Star*Line, Dreams and Nightmares, Sein und Werden, Chrome Baby, Bewildering Stories, and Eunoia Review. His website is at https://zeroatthebone.us/.