Ginger, poppy, muffin-man
Come to make me sick
Lemon, wormwood, in the pan
Here to do the trick
Ginger for its sweetness
To spice me on my way
Poppy for its darkness
To hold the light at bay
Lemon for its tartness
To make me swallow mirth
Wormwood for its bitterness
To lay me under earth
The muffin-man baked this cake
Baked it just for me
Laced with blood and cyanide
Soaked in brackish tea
Ginger, poppy, muffin-man
Come to make me sick
Lemon, wormwood, in the pan
Here to do the trick
...
...
...ginger poppy lemon ginger ginger...i held the hands of two gingerbread children. a boy and a girl. their raisin eyes crinkled up and smiled at me but their frosting mouths were covered in blood...we skipped and ran and giggled till we reached the steps of the church.
the church the church the church. oh no. the church of the screaming saints. i had been here before. this was an old dream...
i clenched their hands tighter and looked down to find the gingerbread children were now crumbs. bloody crumbs in my hand. bloody crumbs on the steps of the church.
a black crow came and picked out the raisin eyes.
i ran in the church tho' i didn't want to...
and there o there all along the endless nave were the saints the screaming saints. along either side the statuary of the saints. carved in painful attitudes. writhing forever. martyred forever.
i started down the nave moving too slow, too fast. i wanted to run. i wanted to crawl.
they were all there: andrew, anna, augustine, benedict, blaze, cecelia, clare, dominic, edward, elizabeth, gregory, ignatius, jerome, stanislaus kostka, lawrence, lioba, leo the great, maria gorretti, matthew, philip neri, louis, luke, polycarp, robert, sebastian, stephen, teresa the little flower, francis xavier...
and so many more, stretching down that endless nave, to the dim altar...
(no no no not the altar)
frozen in attitudes of pain, only tongues and eyes moved. real human eyes rolled in moist sockets; quivered, blinked, popped out. real human tongues stuck out of their stone lips making obscene movements; licking, waving, twisting, panting...
and far above the faint sussuruss of my feet on the floor, of the tongues and eyes scraping stone, came the high-pitched piercing screams of the saints.
the church of the screaming saints...
i walked and walked and walked down the nave, closer and closer and closer to the dark altar. i was moving too slowly, i was moving too quickly. i wanted to run. i wanted to crawl.
and suddenly i was at the altar. and it was wrong, so wrong! bell book and candle on the altar. they shouldn't be there. a dead animal on the altar. wrong wrong wrong.
and the priest approached me. i couldn't see his face because i was kneeling, my head bowed. couldn't see him, shouldn't see him...i was not worthy...but i was needy...
'"o father o father" i wanted to cry, but i couldn't move my tongue. i couldn't move my eyes. helpless i watched him come closer to me as i knelt at the communion rail...
a child was crying somewhere. a slow, steady sound of despair and abandonment. no one should cry like that. it was obscene that a child should cry like that...
but the priest, the priest was coming to me, blade in one hand, cup of blood in the other. i saw his ashy fingers. ashy fingers, ashy fingers! o god, don't let him touch me, don't let him bring that chalice to me...
"let this cup pass me by" my mind screamed...
without sound.
his ashy fingers held the cup to my lips and i saw i saw in the blood i saw
(o the crying the crying)
(in the cup i SAW)
...
...
and i woke up...SCREAMING SCREAMING SCREAMING...
copyright 1995 by jewel (Julieann M. Brown-Micko)
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