The Institution

by Lisa Basarab

Like a wrench turned inward

Flashing pain, and gone

Then squeezing, pounding

All of life

A grip of fear so real

That all becomes hell

Swirling, mashing black

In dreams

Nightmares without release

With jeering, fractured finger

Seeping unholy accusation

Pointing, pointing

Like a knife backstabbing

Like a serpent striking

Like a nail in my heart

A plea

To kill my God in me

To sever bonds with Him

And make of me a shade

Pulled so down

Down in mire so weak and pale

The squalid self abyss,

Marrow-deep fatigue (and

Endless night)

No light, no piercing stream of light

No hint of water

For me on a jury's slate

Only guilt

Of my own making, breaking a

Heart so cold from stone

Jabbing guilt, always guilt

Never mercy

Never.

Why no priestly absolution,

Just a toll to pay and pay?

A slim, tortuous road bending

So far, so far

You promised in His words to me

A feast on my return

A fatted calf

Not noose

To string along and up a swaying

Body in surreal ease

Poked like a child on a swing

Whee!

But the glee of games is gone

For my heart's hunt-ripped effigy

Searing, burning,

Flamed

On the spit of upright clerics

Turning folly into shame

Shame, shame!

(An ancient game.)

And so, alone, I hurt

Slipping into nowhere else to go

Except a shrinking Body

Tree-hung

Battered limbs, blood-splashed

Spittle-strewn and slung

With friends looking up

In misery

Save me, sweet Convicted One

In faint aches of rage I spew

that steal Your breath

From mine

Lift the noose away, heal the ache around

To squelch only every urge to bolt

And not Your pain

In me