By Anita Tanner
This is how religion kills language:
it mounts a thought,
drives and whips it to a frenzied destination
high on a mountain peak—
the ultimate, unquestioned authority
of words, unaware
how riding wreaks language,
bleeds wounds spurred by desire
here on the peak of performance.
How facile, this peak,
to know a thing, not trust, believe,
or hope for, but know assuredly,
out of touch with the lush valley down below
where words, engendered by gentle teasing,
coax nuanced meaning
broken, mysterious.
