Old Faith

Old Faith

There is a bird, the elders say,
who, devouring man
one wretched morsel at a time,
devours his sins.
The pain to this bird is excruciating.
The poisoned skin and sinew,
mashed flesh and marrow,
gnaw inside him but he does not stop.
He knows there are sins in your ribs
and ankles, sins in your tear ducts, cochlea
and calloused knees.
Sins of course—even you admit this—
in your teeth and tongue.
Sins long ago sequestered in your hair
and you are going bald.
They are starting to reveal themselves.
People, some you say or thought
you loved, are staring.
The bird, with his small rasp tongue,
licks them off.
It is a mercy, but his feathers, because
he has done this for you, droop.
Each one, the weight of a small piano,
tears at him, but will not come loose.
He bloats proportionally
to the age and magnitude of your sins.
He is not a Christian.
The confessed are not the smallest
or most digestible.
Before he has reached your fingers,
where the worst are lodged
and lie in wait for him, in ambush,
he is the size of an apartment building.
The pain of the relentless pressure from within
is unbearable, but the walls of his tormented body
will not give way.

He grows with goodness.
Larks and thrushes sing to him.
Tribesmen fall before him, worship him.
Sacred animals are sacrificed and burnt for him.
The smoke wafts toward him, soaks
into his tortured feathers,
and though he is not relieved by one iota,
he feels rewarded, paid.

At a time of his choosing, none knows when,
he throws your remnants up
that they may reassemble, harden
in the dirt before him and begin again.
He is large of spirit.
You are given one more chance.
He remembers the anguish you have caused him.