Under stars, by the light
of a dying fire
the heathen and the heretic
linked arms, spun slowly
in a tense half-embrace.
.
How heady to have risked offending heaven
for the sake of what had to be said
and heard.
.
“Let me tell you of the God
I choose
to believe in,” the heretic had said,
.
and with wild words and grand gestures
he painted a picture that glowed
orange and bright in the light
of the setting sun.
.
They had laughed together,
the heretic with glassy eyes and a flushed face,
the heathen with an inexplicable relief.
.
And they drank, and laughed, and drank until
the dance they danced seemed plausible.
.
But the heathen
held a question
carefully kept between his lips,
.
for he had heard the sound of the headwaters
of a great and thundering river whose name he did not know,
had stumbled toward it, pulled
by that orchestral majesty
.
only to meet the heretic,
all burning eyes and tears of rage,
walking the other way, crying,
“There is nothing to see that way.”
.
So the heathen did not ask.
.
Copyright 2020 Cherise Mabb
Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash