Three Alleluias
At a Glance
Section titled āAt a Glanceā| Metadata | Details |
|---|---|
| Publication Date | 2022-09-01 |
| Journal | Prairie schooner |
| Authors | Sharon Rose Christner |
Abstract
Section titled āAbstractāThree Alleluias Sharon Rose Christner (bio) January 2020 i He carries only a messenger bag the color of clouds and sky, which, closer, reveals itself to be a purse of imitation snakeskin, diamonded but no less sky-like. And O, he is dancing. He is dancing with his sweater draped on his arm like a ceremonial robe, the golden cross on his chest finding the sun and shining with it. Hands wave in the air, feet weave in a hip-sway circle. Music surges into him through white earbuds, perfectly untangled. He has slept many places, and stowed his belongings many others, but dancing here he is light and awake and unencumbered. He is young, and his legs are strong from dancing. He sings to the congregation that is waiting to become a congregation. They stretch in single file from the open arms of the square to the doors of San Pietro, or, more precisely, to the gray machinery of the border crossing. He dances parallel to these waiting ones, declaring in English and in quick flashes of other tongues that they need not wait to worship. Somebooody praise the Lord! Somebooody bless His name! At maximum, he gets a smile from one of them. In general they are nonplussed, the way they have learned they ought to be while waiting for something they want. Many avoid meeting his gaze because his black skin reminds them only of the boys who pull the bracelet scams, and they do not want to be taken for fools. This does not slow him down. He crouches almost to the cobbled ground and twists and swings his way up again, arms beckoning the others to join him in triumph. What else do they have to do? [End Page 189] A man in a red coat points a massive zoom lens at the dancing man, no, up past the dancing man toward the dome of San Pietro which has moved little in its five hundred years. A girl in rose-gold sneakers attempts three photographs of herself, jumping airborne. When her feet hit the ground they stay still again. The dancing man dances past a bleach-haired girl and a white-haired man two inches from a kiss, warm in their coats of down and coyote. She balances on one boot to reach her loverās face but turns to look sidelong at this disruption. Her dreams of a Roman holiday do not look like this dancing man. He was not in the brochure. He dances parallel to the line of bored waiting, moving always every hinge and joint of his body, smiling to those who will not join him. This is my thanksgiving! This is my sacrifice! And then, miraculous: he dances his way into the very line. He has, now and then, already been weaving himself in and out of the end of the line, which stretches across the piazza. Now he makes his way forward in waves and joyous shakes to the front, his way made maze-like by the official wooden fences. The second miracle: everyone lets him do it. If someone blocks his way, he does not mind; he sings and dances his praises right where he is, and soon he is allowed to pass. He is right at the verge of the border-colonnade now, still whipping his hands up to the sky. Oh itās the love, the love of Christ! You feel the love, you choose the love, you do the love. The sick heal! The dead raise! Standing at the threshold, three steps above the piazza, his praise-dance is visible to saints and seagulls, line-waiters, men who doze on plastic chairs by the Vatican walls, the postal trailer on the far side of the colonnade, the bronze figures of refugees. He is watched by soldiers of two nations. A border guard arrives and tells him to stop his dancing, using large and slow gestures that say to all: Iām-trying-to-be-reasonable, come-on-now-sir. The dancing man nods his head with a deep and sincere respect and quiets himself, still subtly step-touching. She turns her back to return toā¦