HIGH MASS 1971A Poem by Terry CollettA YOUNG MAN ON THE BRINK OF MONKHOOD IN 1971A monk, dark robed, stared at the sun on the flower garden, hands tucked into the wide sleeves of the robe, another stood behind him in the line, head lowered, eyes on his sandalled feet, I stood at the front with Brother Hugh, eyes on the orange brick wall, thinking of Mass and the words in Latin I'd learned for the hymn, she stood by the bed in the room and said shall we? and how? I said, you shall see, she replied, the bell tolled from the tall tower, we began to walk into the church, in twos, line following line, fingers into the stoup, water on forehead from shoulder to shoulder, kiss me here, she said, and here and here, and I walked to the choir stalls and took my place at the front, Monks settled into their places, the abbot tapped on wood and the Mass began, chant, voices, unison, slow paced, high and low like a huge wave of Latin sounds, I kissed her inner thigh, lips touched soft flesh, her hands holding me in place, one monk raised a voice in high solo, I see the words in Latin, followed with a finger, she put her finger there and fireworks began, her breath deep in my ear, Corpus Christi, blood stained, eyes gazed across the aisle from the high altar, arms outstretched as if in flight, nailed in place, hammered, lance-pierced side, and she said, more and more and I entered deeper and one of the monks (French peasant) walked down the aisle beside another carrying the cup of blood, who is this that comes? Dom Leo raised the body above his head Corpus Christi, he said, bell sounded, one tolled, I walked in line to partake of the body, opening my lips, and he placed on my tongue, her tongue touched mine, sucked, licked, here, she said, here, the monk with Parkinson's placed a wavering hand with the body of Christ, black robed, fingers aged, he mouthed his amen, incense smell, high, rising roof wards, I saw the abbot make the sign from shoulder to shoulder, the Mass is ended, one chanted in Latin, I closed my eyes, prayers said, couldn't get her half-clothed from my head. © 2015 Terry Collett |
StatsAuthorTerry CollettUnited KingdomAboutTerry Collett has been writing since 1971 and published on and off since 1972. He has written poems, plays, and short stories. He is married with eight children and eight grandchildren. on January 27t.. more..Writing
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