In the mornings, disciples argue
about the right way to pronounce the One Name.
Some stand strong upon there being no Name
for what doesn’t exist, so why discuss it
at all? They bicker and now and then
come to blows and bitter silence.
These many descriptions of God,
even the ones that deny a God at all,
all feel like wounds left untreated.
The flies buzz around the possible names.
Sometimes they sound like threats.
Sometimes they sound like laughter
and the scent floating in the air above them
is like flowers stacked on a grave
not entirely filled with earth.
A strong breeze brings healing
blowing in from all directions at once.
When the air clears behind it
there’s nothing to hear, nothing
to sense at all. The disciples begin to dance
to what they think is the drumbeat
of the True Name being spoken at last
but it’s only the wind stretching the grass,
bending the trees, shifting the ocean onto shore.