the final word

Please listen I say, in a scratchy voice through the wooden door, but they keep praying in high, fluted tones from their straight-backed pews. Pretending not to hear the naked man standing outside. They’d taken one look at me, shuddered; turned away.

It’s no wonder. I’m so hungry my ribs are splitting through my skin. So thirsty my lips are cracking dry. Not a pretty sight. All I want is a sip of wine from their communion table. A slice of their loaf of bread. But no, it’s holy. And I—an abomination.

Their words are gibberish to my bleeding ears. I’m so tired of words. So sick of people who say they’ll help you—who promise to be there until the end—and then leave when you need them most.

I begin to cry; hear the people inside slide the dead-bolt across, begin to pray in louder voices so as not to hear my wailing.

I turn, hobble back to the hill. Climb back onto the cross. The sky is black as I yell out with one final, feeble gasp, It is finished. A phrase which will enter the Hall of Fame as soon as I rise from the dead.

But what I mean is: Language is futile. Every sentence with its punctuation, finished. For I am the Word. And no one is listening.


1 Comment

  1. Melanie said,

    May 26, 2009 at 12:15 pm

    Em, this is haunting and powerful. It makes me shudder when I read it. I pray for ears to hear and eyes to see today.

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