[Jan Iwaszkiewicz]

THE WAGER

Inside the ‘I’ of existential storms
received, ventriloquisted words of God
were graven in the living rock of Earth
and carved verbatim into my green bones.
A form of ordination at my birth.

I was parched in plenty, I breathed on top of breath
where intensities of religious ecstasy,
atavistic, aromatic incense,
and numbing mindlessness of ritual,
crafted my descent into insentience.

I prayed, and was prostrated by the Light.
I saw the Christ step down from off the cross
and take the wound that blooded doubting hands.
I rose as Saul and broken in belief
I wandered prophetless in godless lands.

The years grew colder and the fire of faith
was just a dim, occasional flickering
along the scars of desecrated bone,
I faintly heard a devil snickering
“Your God has left you to exist alone.”

I questioned whether I should wager then.
(A stupid point of pointless honesty
agnostic vacillation at its best.)
I dared to hope for equanimity
and stand believing, facing to the west.