How many names are there for God

Words by Ava Broinowski

Superstition

In the attic universe atop vertiginous stairs we laugh to the sound of bells. A conversation.

Ohm ohm ohm

I speak you in circles, not to fix myself in place, to affix you to the sound of us, in a thousand images,

Double exposed film burnt over counterparts again and again and again

The recurrence of ripples on a tree stump, and I see them here, in the sparsity of lines in yellowed script:

Deep blue at the window as a protestant church bell outside chimes loud four times, nearly dark in the quiet cold.

Ohm ohm ohm ohm

“You know, I’ve told you about the Lapis Lazuli, right, the pigment only for robes of the exploiters and Mary. In the paintings of that era you might have belonged to.” That timeless state, ageless face, you.

You’ve lived so well, burned so brightly, changed everything.

I’ve tried the mentee and I’ve understood, but I can’t see your projections. Do I have to shout it at you ? “I can’t see your projections!”

Give them to me, stop fearing, your mind is searching for a way for me not to be true. How do you pull yourself together ?

I’m all askew.

Share the secrets you keep about this so I can stop going gently crazy. There must be something there, there has to be something there, there is something. Shema shema shema.

A kind old man (who studied to be a priest, and let us set off wailing fireworks, in the fields in front of the Church, in an ancient town, near a pulsating city of dust, in a saturated country, far away) spoke to me when bells rang:

“Anything that is said when the bells of the church are ringing is known to be true, in one way or another.”

Back inside, amber light over the mantel, my legs in your lap, face toward the window, you at the table, face toward mine, either side of the wooden plane, wine glass and ash tray, pencils and pot of clotting ink, (the most creative battleground there ever was)

I try to sketch you, nailing your spine against the page and hands to the bridge of my calf, you marvel at my lines, teach me something, I’ll show you something brilliant, and you taunt: Shema Shema Shema. How many images are of God ?

Is that what you want to be called ?

Do you want the roof to fall on us ? You want me to say something, don’t you. An animal tries to play-fight, you take a swipe, the narrative hurtles by me, too quick to catch.

I feel like silencing you. Fuck, do you ever stop talking ? About everything other than what I know I should hear ? But I dream of that voice either way. I need you torn apart, and I need you everywhere, too.

A mercury laps up against us, glittering into every corner, my heart seeping sweet metal, White stars spin white stars spin white stars spin whiteThen a billion tiny reactions until: My face in your sheets, you twist toward the window, the bell starts tolling, your elbow above my neck, I can’t stop smiling, Your arms all around me, You look afraid, face burning in my eyelids, Then gone again, You hold my ankle, I can hear everything, your eyes are so loud, they’re still praying in my ears.

Ohm ohm ohm ohm ohm ohm

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my God.”

Six in the morning, the bells toll.

Reckoning

This is one of those days made of cellophane, that dissolves just when you feel its glint.

A day whose only memory is the lacing shivers in glass refractions on the underside of boats,

A day with air that is bright silver, that you drink Until you can feel the silhouettes of cyprus trees in the back of your eyelids — the afterimage of nine candles, Until you can feel the water in your lungs,

Until you can feel the creaking of masts in your limbs.

A day of soft, taunting revelation, that cools you down with white sunshine, and warms you in the wind of glass, That tells you “You are beautiful. And something can see that. And there is no doubt.”

A day that washes you up onto another shore, where there is so much doubt, but

A day that lasts a thousand days. A day that begins and ends at the pier heavy with boats, rocking in the dawn, the water of tourmaline, the cliffs are all delicate and burnt orange, pomegranate lacerations

And it’s faint, like a cotton dress, torn at the thigh, Mirages of gentleness, taut at the faded edge

That opens your eyes.

And this will happen again and again and again.

The only reason for time is so that everything doesn’t happen all at once