SARAH FARBIARZ

The Trajectory of Prophecy

מִשֶּׁמֵּתוּ נְבִיאִים הָאַחֲרוֹנִים חַגַּי זְכַרְיָה וּמַלְאָכִי נִסְתַּלְּקָה רוּחַ הַקֹּדֶשׁ

After the last prophets Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi died,
the Divine Spirit of prophecy departed. 

—Babylonian Talmud, Yoma 9b

Someone sent it back to us, regressionspinning,
             it's traveling over the poles now
    (penguins are looking up), shtruffling, wandering,
                                          clucking, pointing noses at something
                                           ineffable, Prophecy:
                                           is loneliness made communal.
            It's closing in on us from both ends now,
                              gobbling the polls and markets who have held it
                                            hostage for so long. But it's only garbagetrucking
and there's love in this violence.

(A love grotesque and ancient, it's coming
                        for late nights in castles and on highways, for kids
                                      passing baseballs back and forth and forth
                        and forth. as they crowd into concentric circles,
        no one attempts a single trickthrow.

The age of prophecy is hoarse, it's screaming
                          so loud. Its scratchroar is precious, petrifying. Daddy says
                                                     it's a matter
                                                of perspective but I know
       it's a medium because I took a barefoot walk late last evening.
                    the bark, peeled from trees, was lying
                                          in a muddy puddle, singing things it doesn't
                                                      mean; And in the franticness
                        we spoke, my feet are ready for a billion uphill marches, and
the age of prophecy is coming back together, sticky: like a middle and ring finger pulled apart.

Sarah Farbiarz is a student at Brown.