The Levite frowns at my offering:
Blemish, he says. I see none, but can you disagree with his authority? It is woven into the linen veil of the temple mount. His hand waves me away, rejecting what I have chosen for slaughter. Bleating, I am helpless as a beast watching the eternal flame flicker upon the altar. Wordlessly I lead my lamb a stone’s throw away from the mercy seat: my beloved blushes as I search for the spot perceived by the priest. My fingers find no burr within the wool, no broken bones. The only defect is my imperfect faith in the correctness of the Levite’s choice. The priest retreats into the sweet smoke and frankincense he calls duty. Secretly I wonder, Can ground be hallowed in the shadow of a broken law? Come, see now the mount with holy sight: its inner court obscenely varicose with congealed fat. I delight no more in the blood of bullocks. My first fruits leads me beyond the wall. Clean nor common are we, unburnt after all the weary miles traveled from Jericho. Sons of Levi, what makes an offering righteous? I do not turn, but hear the whirring of a swarming cloud: the fervor of four hundred and fifty prophets praying: O Baal, hear us. |