when the world breaks i think you’ll find adam in the centre of it all.
doesn’t the heat almost feel biblical?
when the world breaks, i think you will find adam in the centre of it all. moaning. tracing the scar on the side of his body. eve is dead beside him. pale, ashen and breathless. her eyelashes shadow her cheeks her mouth seems to sink into her face. he doesn’t stop moaning.
if there is rain there is thunder and it is punishingly loud. i think when it rains adam’s scar throbs, where god has taken something of his and never returned it. is that not a violation within itself? is that not the earliest act of violence? i think adam looks at his dead wife and traces her collar bone her skin cold at his touch and thinks that maybe creation is violence. he thinks of the way she screamed when their son- now dead at the bottom of a lake- was born. the way he screamed with her— confused at the sight of flesh giving way to flesh. he is the first to whisper ashes to ashes and dust to dust.
when the world breaks, you find a father clutching the remnants of what is left of his son. he has no voice to moan it was lost long ago from calling out for help. he is deaf to the sound of his own body breaking. his country in ruins around him.
there is a mother and she is just like my mother. laughter still etched on her tired face. dark skin matching her children’s who are playing with the hem of her skirts too young to notice the life draining out of her. too young to hear the booming scream of a world breaking in half.
and if jesus was just a boy with his wings ripped off, if he was just the son of a carpenter and an honest woman. if he was just a boy who tried to fight for a better future but was condemned to suffer in the name of “greater good”— then yes. yes i believe he did smell the rotting wood and think of his father. i believe yes, he looked over at the criminals on either side of him and saw not occupation, not wealth, not status but kinship. i believe his mind ran in circles with things to say as they all hung there. i believe he asked them their names and i believe it was the last thing he said as his world broke in half.
i think about sacrifices. i think about how one man was tasked to die for our sins and he did. i think about the absence of the lord. i wonder if his silence is regret? do you still blame us for the death of your son? does your hand twitch in the part it played?
when you look at him do you see echoes of adam? and does it hurt?
i touch my own rib. there is no hole, there is no blood and there is no scar— it is my own secret, buried underneath the layers of the lies i tell myself (and you) i almost wish there was. i want to be special. a savior. i want to be importing enough to not be forgotten in the sands of time. i want you to find me at the centre of it all, when the world breaks. i want you to notice me for better or for worse and tell me that there is meaning for all of this.
and it disgusts me. it disgusts me. i am so full of shame, full of guilt and maybe fifteen years ago i would’ve closed my eyes and told you how scared i am. i would’ve accepted your silence as punishment. i would’ve allowed myself to believe that you have heard me but the disappointment stops you from talking back. i would’ve followed you to the end of the world if it meant redemption. salvation. i would’ve carried that shame like my own cross. and you would’ve let me.
but i am fifteen years older and i bite back. i’m disappointed in you.
at the centre of it you find adam. he was the first after all. you find him cradling his wife’s bones and wondering which one was his first. you find him pretending that it doesn’t matter, you find him the way we found him: naked and alone.
the world keeps breaking.
laughter gets cut short. blood bubbles and burns. we are running out of words.
the world keeps breaking.
bones peek out from beneath dried soil. someone mutters ashes to ashes dust to dust a thousand times. there is an echo of a moan.
the world keeps breaking.
and at the centre of it all,
it isn’t adam you find moaning. tracing the scar on the side of his body,
or eve who was loved only in death,
or lilith.
it isn’t the mother with the beautiful skirts and dark skin, of the father holding what is left of his son.
it’s not me or you,
but one tiny pool of oil.
oil.
and you wonder… who was doing all the breaking in the first place?
wowow - this is so powerful, so spiritual!!