Sin-Eater
**In Welsh & Scots folklore, the sin-eater was called at the death of a family member. He or she was paid a small coin and bread, beer and salt were passed over the corpse, and were eaten and drunk by the sin-eater, who would say a few words, thus taking on all the sins of the deceased, so the soul would rest and not walk about the earth. The door to the cottage would be left open, so the spirit could fly free. When his purpose was accomplished the people burned the wooden bowl and platter from which he had eaten the food handed across, or placed on the corpse for his consumption. At all other times, the sin-eater was shunned, living alone in remote places, avoided and despised by those who chanced to meet him/her.
Sin-Eater 5/15/15
we come into this world
eyes still misted with the Wisdom from the
other side of the veil
gaze with infinite compassion, no judgement, whole
acceptance
the milk of our best moments pours into that
new awareness
and the mists thicken
suffocating the memory of Oneness overlaying
from here
modeling humanity
to there
thread tenuous
small spurts of
lightning
Zip! under the radar
Zap! the vestigial organ
vast preknowledge encapsulated in remembrance
never lost
the soul a fly on your lips
ephemeral
half seen, sticky
from visiting the honey jar
fortified for the Journey
in-breath and out take on concrete
harden the briefly osmotic skin
permeable still to the voice of deep space
stars, planets so far away they are only
rumours
brush the veil aside and enter what’s known as
Reality
the connection to the veiled world makes sin-eaters
of poets
condemned to gather the sorrows, petty angers
sins of omission
commission
jealousies
murderous thoughts
killing actions
condemned to recreate recreate recreate without
end
the deeper remembrances of the womb pave the
road to that other world
beyond and back again
some of the same ecstasy spilling over into
normal potluck
in the universe of flaming sons and daughters
sacrificed to the post Enlightenment backslide
tick tock tick tock tick
tock
footsteps at the roach end
of the night
soot-blackened buildings
lean close in
watchful
ruined morning
fumes of dead streetlight
auras follow the lost ones
home to their cribs pads
hustles
a few hours sweaty sleep
on gritty sheets
or
no sheets
drag stained ratty
comforter close to ward off the nightmare of daylight
ordinary life impossible
for the nightwalkers
stories fit only for the
ears of rebels and madmen
like
Cassandra
like the Christ
like Malcolm or Lamumba or Peltier
or who knows what nameless
female locked away
discredited
assassinated
the earth trembles
and the mouth of the
mother opens to swallow her children
morning dawns unknowing
desolation waste and wreckage all around
when the fog has melted
rigid edges of shared experience
dreams melt with the mist
buried
for another day
until the dirt maw shall claim
the unresisting
break bread and lick salt
from the wounds!
a
palm crossed with silver
and I will take from you
darkness
that threatens to devour
the pristine temple of spirit
who would be a sin-eater, a
poet , a visionary
disdained though they’re
the Record of us all
internalized with bread
and beer and salt and cries
in the depths of loss?
a last supper for
shrunken starving bellies
abject in fear & loathing
seeking, always craving
Love & Light
who
would willingly quaff this drink
only
to be driven out to the edges of the void
no honour?
break bread! drink the
iniquities of this gone life
imbibed with draughts of
beer
washed down so he or she
can rest, but never you!
the poetry of their
billion seconds now the songs for your tongue
and for all the world
but who will hear or remember?
without the shadow, all is
blindness; without the truth, everything is a lie
when night winds brush the
veils aside
divine insomniacs sit with
dead heroes and avatars
and listen
tell
us again why we do this
tell
us again why we’re here
echoes and echoes in firmament, no answer
no sound save the sin-eater’s timeless wail
benediction
of a broken heart
© 2015
pamela twining
