I peel back belief like the rings of an onion, brush covert tears with the back of one
hand while clasping my knife in the other. The creeds and the councils are so many
layers to prise and slide away: they drop like crescent moons into a bucket. The new
living surface is soft to the touch. I unwind it nevertheless, slip under the wrappings of
language to something dearer still. I will cherish whatever is there – a white nub
of nothing, an atom, a pearl – knowing it is good news, trusting it is gift.
I have found God in the linen room,
within stiff folds of serge, and the tough
pleats of bodies asked to bear
their own spoiled fabric. I have raised
the sheets in thin cool air; aligned
the corners thumb to finger, stepped
with arms outstretched like Mary
visiting Elizabeth. We
are wound together, in this simple
place of transfigured threads.