Revelations

They told me that they heard a trumpet.

That an angel held it gleaming golden,

and cried that, “Now,

One third of the sea will be blood and,

The rivers and lakes are no shelter.

For crimson gathers there too.”

The people say “wars, and rumours of war”

They say the saints must flee

and face the Judgement.

They say that the altar of G*d is shattered,

Sacrifices tainted.

They say that the priests

hold their caught-bloodied hands,

With their saintly, bloodied hearts.

That there is no more well to wash them.

No mikvah for any of us to be cleansed and

Made clean.

So I will quietly take up my stitching.

Draw the fatal cut thread, in and out

In and out

As a piercing note in two parts:

That which is given.

That which is received.

Now I know I will create,

And may the Lord make me truly grateful:

Since I have no bread,

No hallowed wine,

And no sacred place to cleanse me,

A single last holy thing from here.

That no one will be left to see,

A spun Eucharist of thread and fabric.

Of blood red lines and shouted warnings,

Of kings toppled, and nations ruined,

Of Babylon falling and burning grey smoke.

Weeping,

As I stitch, stitch, stitch a tapestry

Full hearted greens and golds shot with blue,

Flying through my stained fingertips,

To stave off the apocalypse,

That we all knew, deep down, was coming.

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