The Father has a golden needle —
plucked it from the beak of
a great, jeweled bird; its scream
leveled a mountain,
and a thousand people died.

The Father has a set of shears
made out of the breath of lambs,
the sinew of a mourning dove.
He won them in a game of dice

with his wife. She
hated to give them up, knowing
what he would use them for.  She
would have cut him herself,
if she’d have caught him sleeping
in that lap of ash.

When a king’s leg is opened,
the muscle looks the same
as the butchered thigh of an ox –
and it will rot if left untended
and grow the stink of disease;
much has been made of
the bodies of kings, that
they fall as fast as dogs.

When a god’s leg is cut,
the sap of stars runs along
the seam of the skin – there
the sound of sea-bells, and
wind, and the muscle groans
awake ranges beneath the
earth, and tides march backwards,
to suck the marrow from the sand,
and the gulls cluster together
in between the fat backs of great seals,
and the grass is afraid.

This cradle hosts the Seed,
and the Father is gentle,
wipes the trace of lightning off
his brow.  And covers
the singing wound with honey.

When the son breaks the doors down,
and rips the tents with wine,
and wracks the wailing women
with a terrible freedom, illuminating
how beauty rises from the body
like steam in the morning, and how
horror rises from its muddy hole like bees
from bulls,

does the Father wonder if he shouldn’t
have taken his winking needle
and his shears, oiled and slick as night,
and sewn his mad and restless son
into the thigh
of a king
instead?

[Ruby Sara has been and sometimes is a storyteller, a poet, and a theologian. She is a contributing writer for the performance collective Terra Mysterium, the editor of two anthologies of esoteric poetry published by Scarlet Imprint, and a columnist for Witches and Pagans magazine. Ruby holds a Masters degree in Theological Studies, and has interests in theopoetics and liturgical theology. She lives in Austin, Texas with her intrepid spouse and their demon-monkey-cat, Pinky.]