Caving Ground

“Introibo ad altare Dei,”
Father Guerra mutters and steps over
The sign: CAVING GROUND DO NOT CROSS. Murky

Air whispers secret sin and error;
The wind sighs as the dark door slides open:
Faint boyish profile, ritual terror

Of leopard and lamb. Whisks of cassocks, bread and wine,
Incense and ashes, virgin sorrow, boys’ refrain:
“Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.”

Father and son, man and boy, tongues in pain
Eating the body, drinking the high blood,
Sermonizing the sky, glossing the stain.

He scuttles and staggers over the bony wood,
Finds the tree, the east, and the ancient truth;
Kisses the alb, the chasuble, the stole of good;

Knots the cincture seven times, nooses a wreath
Around his collar, tosses the end over the oak.
Turns right, turns left, crosses himself in wrath,

Stuffs his mouth with cantos and the holy book.
Hearing no mercy, he jumps to the dark sphere.
The ground heaves open, the earth caves with a crack.

With a blur of legs, he ruins himself in fear
Down to the deep, lying on cooling rocks.
The roaring surf fashions his broken bier.

A shape, a thing surfaces and mocks
His sight. The horrible sand burns, blessing stars
Turn away. Northern lights bleed in shock

As he chews on his second death. His senses war
With twitch and sear, coil and twist. His “amen”
Mutely fades as his shade weeps in a rain of fire.

Phil Dansdill

Phil Dansdill is a retired high school English teacher who is currently enrolled in the MFA program at Northern Michigan University. He has published poems in The English Journal, The Connecticut English Journal, The Leaflet, and Blurb.