Pearl

Pearl

When you were asleep

I tapped you on your side—

Just a light rapid tapping, three times,

So faint you could have missed it.

Ridiculous?

Perhaps.

But why did this flutter of a rhythm in the tenderest place between the upturned curve of two ribs wake you from dead sleep

And make you think

Maybe I wanted to speak to you?

No less real than the presence of a toddler tentative by the side of the bed,

Frozen in silence louder than a wail,

Holding his breath while watching you breathe and willing you to wake until finally whispering your name,

I hovered next to you waiting for the quietest moment so my whisper would resound

So you would listen,

Because isn’t that the way of my still small voice?

When you were pinned down and quaking

Under the raging demon screams of the firestorm—

Remember this later—

I was not in the fire.

I was not in the storm.

I was not in the quaking.

Who was it then?

Be careful.

It was not I.

I do not materialize on demand,

But the enemy is more than happy to do so.

And later,

After the herd of legion-jolted pigs’ feet thunders over you in impossible lumbering lightning speed,

Their horrifying awkward rocking rolls of squealing squalling hammy cloven hooves striking sharp ringing blows on the back of your head

That seem to echo deeper than the eternal depths of your soul,

Know this:

I’ve already bought the whole muddy field left in their wake—

Every square inch—

To redeem the tiniest pearl of a seed ground down so far you think no one could ever find it.

So lift your head and see the land I bought for you.

Oh, sweet girl,

You are the pearl under the pigs’ feet,

And yes those pigs’ feet are relentless.

The howling chaos when it seizes you is relentless.

But I am not.

I am a featherweight tap in the night.

Remember this:

If your spirit quickens,

It’s deep calling deep.

Hold still and listen.

Little lost sheep,

I always know exactly where to find you.

I know that the source of your terror scream seems deeper than I will ever be able to dig.

Its sulfurous supply seems infinite, beyond exhausting.

But why are you looking for the living among the dead?

I am not there.

Lift your head.

I’ve already been to the deep beyond that depth, and you know that nothing out-depths me.

So do not forget:

I am risen!

I am on the outside with you,

Where the air is.

Here.

Rest a moment while I wash your matted wool whiter than snow.

And then don’t call dirty what I have made clean.

And remember what you learned:

Blasphemy called the Son of God blasphemous.

It called evil what was good.

It demanded that the kingdom of God produce a king instead of the nerve of that man who slipped under their skin with a whisper.

It was I who confined that full to bursting mighty heart of God to a fist-sized mass of
thumping flesh—

And it was I who restrained it there,

Breaking

Every time I stopped long enough to dwell on their deafness.

They wouldn’t have heard me anyway if I’d screamed.

And neither would you.

I won’t compete to be heard.

Don’t forget this.

Don’t give dogs even a crumb of what is holy,

Because even you

Have a crumb of holy in you.

I should know.

I dropped it there one day when you weren’t looking.

I am the one

Who bought the whole field,

That pig-trampled field of treasures of great worth,

Each no bigger than a seed.

And you,

You were never the enemy’s weed.

You were never the pig.

You were the pearl.

--erinrms 4-15-2020