Sacrament
KEN HADA
This is the way the sun rises.
A body spent in darkness reflects the first moments of light. You gaze like one lost in the desert trying to decipher the source of life, to separate what is, and what never was. You know a mirage is something to be followed – a harsh truth, a vision to be endured if you can; but it's a lie that mirrors some truth somewhere – yet knowing that infringes on your soul. While the body follows, you grasp for authenticity, but will trade everything for pleasure. But some truth beyond calls us, and the act itself becomes a means of grace – portal to moments of paradise. You hold your breath in the soft glow of morning, taking it all in – trying not to be a romantic fool, but the senses betray a language, a babel that can't be denied, should not be censored – something like the brush meeting the oil – the tip loaded for expression that always surprises deep in the night. You wait for more light, drowsing bits of sleep between sideways glances at the body alongside yours. Satisfied, speechless, light sneaks in between the blinds, a bird sings on the other side of the wall. Your esteem rises, confirms like the crust of a blue-ribbon pie at the county fair – everyone knows in the abstract – but the elegant taste of tongue on the texture sweetens the sadness around us. Touch me and take me away. The body makes the soul. The soul is the union of bodies in honest pleasure when nothing else interferes, when nothing compromises – and there is no time. |
Ken Hada's most recent books are Contour Feathers (Turning Plow Press, 2021) and Sunlight & Cedar (Vacpoetry 2020). Ken's work has been featured on The Writer's Almanac and has been awarded by The National Western Heritage Museum and SCMLA. He is a professor at East Central University in Ada, Oklahoma.
More at: kenhada.org
More at: kenhada.org