A ravine bleeds through a canyon; here, Christ washes.
Water cascades over her face and down her shoulders,
cleansing resin from her hide. As sediment thickens the water,
the liquid becomes course, offering a palpable skin speckled through
with earthen pigments. But the pool is unable to breath.
Like this woman, the water is choking under the care of meek fiction, meek time excited by distillations of a glowing dervish in the clouds; and yet, her voice grows more piercing still while she gasps for air.
Now, imagine scanning Christ from the shallow depths of the pool to the fraying tufts atop her head. Does Christ not confuse? For, Christ is neither in those spaces where texture engulfs the moment nor in those phases where thought is animate; she is in repose.
But what if you and I were to climb down her throat – what then would we see?
A vestibule of brittle teeth and lavish pinks within the mouth...the plush corridors of a mechanical vault that is neither flesh nor metal.
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