Wheatfield With Crows

I stand at the field’s cross
and crucify my bitter sacrament of stagnance.

the whispering-away crows
are seven candles, self-lit in vigilance.

God take this cup from me!
it is bitter and filled with blood that is not mine.

the harvest will make bastards of us all.
the sacrificial victims stand ready in line.

a path leads weeping into you, o field,
a path that weeps like the river in Egypt.

a path like a serpentine cross,
overrun by the gospel in thorny script.

say it is my fate and I will drink your bitter blood.
blows land on my soul from the sky’s wind.

the crows are chalices with blood-seeking eyes.
they are avatars of the dark sky and fate leaves them unfrightened.

a path flows singing into you, o field,
but its song is a skull like Golgotha.

my spirit is a coat of tattered songs,
covered in crow-like fringes of raffia.

I stand at the cross of the field
and drink the vinegar of your blood.

my crisis is a laughing within me,
laughing at a crown of thorns and a cross of wood.

the crows wheel in the sky like body-laden wagons.
the dark wind lands blows on my soul.

God take this cup from me!
or leave it, that I may again be whole.