WHERE THE CRUCIFIX BENDS

At 6:66 AM, he returned upon my doorstep
With a smug smile stitched across his face.
I hid beneath my sheets, for his visage I dared not behold.
“Cara mea, nunc umbrae nostrae una erunt.”
He spoke in a tongue my soul remembered.

I knew not the words,
yet I knew precisely what they meant.

My dry, red ambrosia ceased its wandering
Through the veins the lords bestowed upon me.
My hands grew cold beneath the covers,
though I could feel his warmth through the door.
The candles wept black wax at his arrival.
Even the walls shrank from his shadow.
And when he smiled,
the crucifix above my bed bent sideways.

I shut my eyes.
He came closer.

I shut them tighter.
He came closer still.

Then I heard my own voice whisper,
“Let him in.”

I had not moved my lips.

The floorboards groaned beneath his feet,
though I heard no footsteps.
The mirror refused to hold his reflection,
yet mine stood beside him -
smiling.

I looked away.
It smiled still.

Outside, the morning birds fell silent.
The sun remained buried beneath the clouds,
as though Heaven itself had barred its gates.
He whispered my name again,
and this time,
I remembered teaching it to him.

But I had never met him.

Had I?

O Lord, whose soul dares wear his face?
Perhaps even Satan kneels in prayer before him.
Perhaps the angels know his name,
and have erased it from every hymn.

Thy Majesty,
please stay away from me.

For I fear the door is not what keeps him outside.
I fear the door was never closed.

And when I finally looked toward the crucifix,
it was no longer bent toward him.

It was bent toward me.