by Oscar Mellers
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| The Incredulity of St Thomas by Caravaggio |
they pray for you to catch the light
like it’s something you could drop —
a whole life spent in devotion,
painting worship on like glaze
to soothe your tender skin,
shaped like St. Thomas’ body.
the residue stuck to my fingers
is the residue of holding you
tightly all those years ago.
and when I reach for the sky
to catch the tiniest glimpse
I begin to smudge
a picture lasting little more
than eternity, whilst all else
melts to a superficial
Byzantine work of art.
now, holding you calls
a funeral procession
of the whispered hum of wheels
and caustic engine crackle —
a full rotation just to see the grey
made white through the kiln.
but when I spy through your shiny
glaze, I embrace stories of naivety.
perhaps not as pure as St. Tom,
instead a yixing teapot,
and the closer I get,
the more I can smell
the remnants of experience.
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