The Spiral

They said that shape held meaning,
the men in starched shirts: some symbol of eternity
or devotion. The spiral. I don’t mind
those messages, but they don’t fit a religion so linear
with a single path, an iron rod, a right
to choose, a steeple adorning
rectangular buildings. No room
for circles there.

Only circles tracked in brains:
the rabbit holes down which we tumble,
floating and falling between
right and wrong. Slide down
the banister into compulsion
to ensure salvation. It is the only way
so pray morning and night, and tie
your apron just so. No, like this. Grasp
bread and then water in your right
hand only, and offer your naked palm
to shake the hand of the apparition
just to be certain. These spirals exist
surely. In fact, the structure sustains
them with raised arms at least twice
a year. Even in that, though, there are squares. They put spirals in temples,
and that’s part of the significance.
Plenty of symbols in the temple that appear
nowhere else. As if the Protestant
                  scaffolding was chucked out the window
                  just before they placed the stained glass
                  in the celestial room. Liturgy litters the walls,
                  curtains, even the auditorium-style seats
                  come equipped with springs. Circles abound,
                  if you have eyes to see: the stars,
                  elaborate rings round
                  woodwork roses, patterned
                  swirls in carpet and crown
                  molding, polygamous
                  marriages, time-tunnels
                  in perpendicular mirrors,
                  the path one walks from start to finish.
                  And, of course, the spiral staircases
                  leading to some untouchable thing:
                  a second anointing or a vestibule,
                  embodying an outstretched hand.