By Matthew J. Andrews
(after Scott Erickson’s The Lamb Who Was Who Is and Is to Come)
Crack the earth open like an egg
and watch magma spill out as yolk.
Rip a lamb apart like a loaf of bread
and watch the innards tumble as seeds.
To seek is nothing more than to lust
for dissection, the opening of flesh like a door,
and to mourn when it is yet another hallway,
another stack of boulders awaiting dynamite.
Cut the straps that hold your body together
and watch another you emerge from the rubble,
and from him, another, each image
a little less runny, each a little more clear.
kneels, bows, settles
into a rhythm of prayer,
of repetitive incantation –
be filled by me.
The temple lungs swell
and retract with the words,
echoing them back,
emitting them through open windows
like smoke from a candle.
The wine ripples
when the heart pitches
like a tuning fork.
Each half of lamb
bleats back at the other.
As we are commissioned,
we bury both part of the lamb
in the dirt, put our lips
against the soil, and pray
as the corpse disintegrates
into nourishment, evangelists
for congregations unseen.
As we are commanded,
we splinter the staff over our knees,
sprinkle shards into the soil,
and watch as a tree emerges,
branches sagging with fruit, golden
like a king’s crown,
and then we take and we eat.