Consent: a Brief History
Idolized as consenting; much depends
on that notion. But what earthly woman
could say no to an angel? The lithe olive-toned
form of the maiden soon swollen, shaped
from within by the prodigy growing.
Consent, was it then, to the flesh-rending
pain? To blood, urine and feces?
To birthing the type of material creation?
Flesh formed of the Word and man’s fated future:
my mortal career. So, serpent or fish?
The loaf or the stone? The one without sin,
or the first one to throw? Rocky soil, shallow root,
barren branch, blasted tree. Second mile,
dusted shoe. The chaff and the wheat.
The eye of the needle. The dog eating scraps
down under the table. Gaudy lily, willful blindness,
dying seed, burning vine. The prodigal son and the
Gadarene swine. One taken up and one left behind.
Bushel and light; foolish lack of lamp oil.
The mustard seed sown. The better part taken.
The sheep and the goats. A foundation on sand.
The shirt after the coat. The imperial coin,
the last pfennig she had. The pearl of great price,
the house scoured for a shekel. The shepherd,
the wolf, the one pulled from the pit. The infinite
regression tracking back to the Garden and
the immaculate conception of Eve, who consented.
You horn-sounding viper! You whitewashed sepulcher!
My mother, a woman, not some pagan crop goddess!
Consent! Few are chosen! You know not the hour!
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX~ Rob Dakin, 12/9/11