Testament

When Donna tells us the bibles were unadorned octavos, 
pocket-sized, unassuming as notebooks, the room is shocked, 
expecting them to be tomes, 
as though they were meant to be ornaments
or instruments adorning lecterns and shelves, 
as though they were made to be flaunted and thumped
and not smuggled in bundles of cloth 
or read under covers, 
undressed in candle light by fingers and eyes. 

“Of course they would be so plain”, 
you think. “They’re just letters on paper and glue, 
as easy to burn as they are to read.”

Their surprise must be like discovering a man
in the dark you were told was bold and ruthless
with a mouth of seven cloven tongues, 
to find defiance short and feeble
and dumb, and thinking: 
“Who knew such a mouth would be so small? 
That it would be this easy to kill this body twice: 
To chain larynx to throat
and turn its volume to ash.”

You wonder what he would say
of those who sing in tongues, hit octavos proudly in hand, 
turn bibles to talismans and drums, shaking them
as though beating in heaven’s door and calling down fire.

for St. Paul's Cathedral, Reformation 500 Late, 28 October 2017

Gabriel Akamo, 2017