On a Whore’s Stoning (or The Martyr’s Rock)

photo by Brassai

photo by Brassai

It seemed to her that all was stone and cold. A chiseled sky rocked through its cycle—onyx night, sienna day—the street beneath her sang staccato chants. When she arrived, the work was done, the air, like bouldered sound, had plundered through the village square and rumbled to decrease along the river. The chunked cathedral, massed of imprecise four-sided blocks and geode dome shook loose its bell in mica ripples. Pelted, flung, the woman lay, her slapped limbs flattened to mosaic shapes, her insubstantial slivered dress denying protection—satin drenched, the second skin of stockings peeled back from the ragged first. A chunk of rock fit neat into the soft recess behind a knee. Another nestled to the crevice of her throat—at peace in stasis—body to cold body. One, run through with stratas, grey, then white, had smashed the long-boned fingers, rolled like an expended lover to the marbled fountain’s foot. The oily black one bruised the jaw by shoving up the chin. The blats of trumpets of the villagers massed and swung through cold propped walls of stone mazed alleys. A lapidary God had pounded gasps of hardened cloud, a brittle white, and still he hammered shrapnel bits of birds that flung their wings in accusation of the grounded scene. Christ was hanging everywhere, betrayed. From slated roofs, dangling limbs slung out from pounded nails.

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