The Climb

She clawed her way to God across the sheer rock face
of man's denominations. All the way,
the stern forbidding voice of Paul:
It is disgraceful that a woman speak in church.
She fought Saint Paul, rock on whom the church was built,
wept, beat her head against his unforgiving face,
and climbed, alone, without a rope,
no pegs, no map, no markers on the route,
her only guide her own left hand,
her only brake, the right.
No flashlight. In the night she felt her way,
a bat, a clamoring owl.
No fire. In winter just the blaze of her desire.
She lusted after God.
Edged her way foot after foot,
and where there was no foothold, leaned out on sky,
pressed feet to angled slab, let friction hold her.
On creased rock, she clung, close-fingered.
On fissured, set foot and foot in counterpoint,
jammed fingers into tiny cracks and with a twist,
wedged in, pressed on
until the overhang before the peak. Hesitated there,
one arm extended down with elbow locked,
the other seeking the next hold.
No hold. Swung into air,
and at the apex of her arc, weightless before the fall,
snatched a hold clean out of nothingness.
Walked up sheer rock.

Joanna Catherine Scott

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