Anathema Bloom
They measured my soul
against doctrine
and found
its constellation
too wayward
to be blessed.
Thus I was entrusted
to the reliquary
of uncanonized marvels:
an alabaster raven
whose argent plumage
bewildered midnight;
a chrysoprase chalice,
hairlined with centuries,
yet sweeter
than untouched crystal;
a black asphodel
whose fragrance
outlived every psalm;
and one bent aureole,
still luminous
where perfection
would have fractured.
I entered
the vesper orchard.
Cinnabar fruit
ripened beneath eclipses.
The wind officiated,
censing the dark
with myrrh,
until respiration itself
became liturgy.
There,
obsidian lilies
raised their chalices
beyond the jurisdiction
of dawn.
No scripture
remembered them.
Yet the stars
crossed more slowly
above their perfume.
Upon an abandoned shelf
the pale circumference
of a lifted vessel
remained.
Dust had refused it.
Time had not.
Then every relic
relinquished
its disguise.
The bent aureole
had merely learned
the curvature
mercy requires.
The alabaster raven
was daylight
remembering itself
before colour
accepted obedience.
The fractured chalice
held more heaven
than the cathedral
that refused it.
Your silence arrived
with the faint sweetness
left inside a cupboard
after a cherished vessel
has been lifted away.
Every thorn
forgot blood.
Every serpent
its verdict.
Every stone
its apprenticeship
to violence.
Then the hidden ordinance
of creation
stood unveiled.
Paradise has never dwelt
inside perfection.
Its earliest radiance
has always sought
whatever certainty
condemns first.
The universe keeps its original face
inside whatever perfection
cannot imitate.
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