Pursue me, Hounds of Hell, with blazing eyes and already bloodied mouths.
Hunt me, Lord of Hosts, with an archangel’s harrowing, incendiary wings.
Search for me where I’m perched on the edge of the edge of the ledge of
the tundra about to crack into the sea. Chase me over the curve of the world,
across continents of crags, cataracts, shorelines, river valleys of dry bones.
Through all Creation’s wilderness of thickets, stalk me, track me, race after me,
until I collide with the frontier’s barbed wire and have to hurry to hurdle it
so as to save my soul. Let me stop then and be astonished by the signs of life:
a field of mild cows, grazing; a garden ripening with blossoms and greenery;
the first house of the first village, the colonnade of poplars shading a road,
geese murmuring under hay barns, and mill wheels spilling all the earth’s
waters where I wash my face and hands. Let doors I’ve always believed bolted,
open, offering light and a seat at the table--I’d thought I would never find
a place set anywhere for me or the unutterable darkness I carry, lodged inside.
Here windows resound with birdsong. Plates abundant, when we take hands
for grace, a hundred thousand years of grief fall away. The wine glasses brim.