ArtFest

Ella shook her head, tracing the edge of the printed poem with a tight, disapproving thumb. "This pseudo-Christian imagery is completely counterproductive," she muttered, her posture stiffening. "Not only is it apt to offend many pious people, but it's bound to provoke feminist sensitivities as well."

Across the table, Shu began to clap—a slow, rhythmic tempo that echoed softly through the quiet room. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "The author has succeeded in pissing off many people," he said, resting his chin on his palm. "I rather like the way conventional religious imagery gets twisted here." He paused. "There's also a strong Dionysian energy running through this poem — it speaks of a mysticism of the flesh in the same way as D.H. Lawrence, Henry Miller, and Anaïs Nin. It basically says: If the body is where we experience ecstasy, why shouldn't it also be where we experience the sacred?"

Juanita leaned forward, her eyes darting between the lines of text as if reading a tactical map. "I see it as an ongoing battle," she observed quietly, her fingers tapping against the table, "between the author's male and female personas." She glanced at her friends, then added, "The Virgin, the lover, the poet, the priest—they keep changing masks. The poem may be less interested in resolving those identities than in making them collide."

Jack tilted his head back and barked out a laugh. He leaned his elbows on the table, with zero pretense. "I dunno," he said through a broad, irreverent grin. "Maybe the poet is simply an arse hole. Haf ya considered that?" He shrugged and the room became silent.