Crest not bade me soul – not a more perfect sentence in the language. Tops! The pinnacle! I wasn't there yet, for the crest had not bade me. The shoulders of my shirt cinched down between drowsy hanging arms, revealing a scraggly dark patch of chest hair. If there were gifts left to give, they would come by those splintered brazen workbench hands. Unshuttered windows, that briny squawking clime of distant sea air. Great parapets of lost concealments. Bilging heels gong-rung together in startled splay. Suddenly, like banshees wailing across the moors – it came! "Christ hath bathed my soul," the beautiful voice sparkled. I looked up from the pew to find a priest standing over me. Cherub-faced and nipper drunk. A smile like fresh linens. A great light! – "Crest not bade me soul," I muttered inaudibly. His way was fine too
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez, and Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
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