Holy Stones
And then the day of the stoning arrives
Like any other day, a sunny sky
The same old blue, just like thousand years ago, in ancient deserts, ancient times,
when the white circle was drawn
around the sinner, the she-dog, the bitch
And the sun froze to stone,
exploding into millions of fists
raining down on holy land.
And then the congregation comes forth,
pack of dogs, solemn and cruel
standing like erections, all dressed in white
closing in around a hole in the ground,
awaiting the she-dog, the sinner, the fun,
collecting the stones, weighing them in dirty hands, leaving the big ones out,
so death won’t come too fast and spoil the holy pleasure.
And then the target arrives, half-human, half-naked.
Buried her up to her waist,
covered in sun, exposed to their sneers,
eyes white with disbelief
arms waving in a parody of flight
As the stone dogs start to salivate
sniffing the air for wetness
feeding on fear and weakness
anticipating holy revenge
And then the first stone hits home,
teeth crack, splinters of white
And then the second breaks bone
And now the stones start to rain
tears and blood and vomit and
cries sucked into bloody sand
And then the last stone is thrown,
into a face long gone, now just a hole
for holy rage to penetrate.
And then the dogs walk back home
in post-coital solemnity
And they hug their children
And they kiss their wives
caressing their knives cracking their whips
For now in silence
For now in peace
The holy dogs are fed
And meanwhile,
in silence,
silence, larger than the desert
the flies gather,
black and blue,
shiny and green,
to bury what’s
left of her
face.
Francis Kirps, poète, écrivain
