R. Murray Schafer: Credo
  Scott Cecchin

                         As if
a feast were found
in the forest, table set like a Sunday
morning, with angels as houseguests.
                                                          As if
you’d emerged from a lifetime of
whatsit you mistook for silence,
into an amphitheater of mist and
angel’s breath.
                       As if
a forest had grown in front of your eyes,
tiny sprouts that bloom like a
zoom button.
                    As if
you’d taken a step, the most uncountable
step of your life, and suddenly,          ,
                                                           you’re falling,
through a great hall of ice, which flows
like its water self. You land at the
queen’s feet. She speaks a language you’ve
forgotten, filling the
hole at the centre of your life. A terrible
torrent of déjà
vu. The puzzle pieces finally fitting as each piece
scatters in the wind like
leaves blown off the trees
during Halloween gusts. You,
desperate to explain – all the other monarchs
meant nothing. You, unworthy. Cursing a lifetime
of infidelity. But how answer, when
speechlessness is your only
home?
           There is a place you are meant
to be. A clue you’d
forgotten at
birth.
        As if
your home had been turned
inside out, and there was no way
in but away and away.

Past Issues Contact and Submissions About The Steel Chisel Author Profiles