The Throne of Stone Or, The Boy Speaks Last An American folk-death dance, as told by the doe-eyed boy himself

The Throne of Stone 

 Or, The Boy Speaks Last 
An American folk-death dance, as told by the doe-eyed boy himself 

I. THE CHAIR

Now I stand before the throne of stone 
where the Devil sits and the Lamb is gone. 
I’ve got no contract. I’ve got no pen. 
I’ve got nothing left to give again. 

And the Devil says, “Come in, cher. Take a chair. 
We can work something out. We can make it fair.” 
But I look at the seat and the names below. 
There are things about stone that a boy can know. 

There is stone in the courthouse. Stone in the nave. 
Stone at the door and stone at the grave. 
Stone for the man who pronounces the blame. 
Stone for the boy when they finish his name. 

And the bell goes ding— 
oh, the bell goes ding— 
but the string’s gone slack on the little brass ring. 
And the cat sits still while the mouse walks round. 
But the mouse lays the pen 
on the cold, cold ground. 

II. DO NOT THINK

Do not think the throne will forget your name. 
Do not think the chair will confess its shame. 
Do not think the stone will speak for you. 
Do not think their sorrow will make it true. 

I buried my heart so I couldn’t hear 
the foot on the stair and the turn of the year. 
I buried it deep where the rain came through. 
But it beat in the dirt like a heart will do. 

And the throne is stone. 
Oh, the throne is stone. 
And the Devil sits there all alone. 
And the Lamb is gone from the place they said— 
and the stone is cold, 
and the stone is red. 

III. THE WITNESSES

The family that raised me said, “You’re not ours. 
You’re not the son. You’re not the flowers 
we planted out back. You’re not the seed.” 
Then they shut the gate on the thing they’d freed. 

The lover that held me said, “You mistook 
the hand on your shoulder, the way that I looked. 
I never promised the life you drew.” 
But I know what he said. And he knows it too. 

The friend that walked with me said, “I can’t stay. 
I can’t be seen with you. Not this way. 
I’ve got a family. I’ve got a name.” 
And he left me to carry his share of the shame. 

And the people of grace at the sanctuary door 
said, “We’ve welcomed your kind here before. 
But there must be repentance. There must be a change.” 
And the house I had entered grew distant and strange. 

And the throne is stone. 
Oh, the throne is stone. 
There is room on the steps, but the chair’s their own. 
And each one points to the next in line: 
“It wasn’t my sentence. 
The fault’s not mine.” 

IV. THE PLACE OF TERROR

And you made me wait in the place of terror, 
where the hate was law and the love was error. 
Where I learned every sound that a hallway makes 
and how long a man can lie awake. 

You watched me beg for a different word. 
You wrote down something I’d never heard. 
You called me difficult. Called me unwell. 
You asked for the story. You would not let me tell. 

And the ones with the techno magic came, 
with a screen for a face and a file for a name. 
With the star and the badge and the locked-up gate, 
with the scale and the pen and the order to wait. 

There was always a record. A record somewhere. 
But the thing that had happened was never quite there. 
And I stood by the desk with my hat in my hand 
while they spoke to each other of what they had planned. 

And the throne is stone. 
Oh, the throne is stone. 
And the voice through the wire has a practiced tone. 
And the little red light keeps shining through. 
And the file says something 
I never knew. 

V. THE MARK OF THE GRAVE

Now don’t tell me stone is only a chair. 
I’ve seen what they cut in the stone out there. 
A name and a number. A beginning, an end. 
A word about husband. A word about friend. 

A verse from a book. A flower in a jar. 
A whole life shortened to Here you are. 
And who gets to choose what the letters say? 
The ones who would not let him stay? 

The ones who refused him a place at the meal? 
The ones who will speak now and call it their grief? 
Don’t put their pardon above my head. 
Don’t put their words in the mouth of the dead. 

Don’t carve “beloved” to cover the day 
you heard me knocking 
and turned away. 

And the throne is stone. 
Oh, the throne is stone. 
A seat for the living. A mark for the gone. 
And the rain runs down through the letters deep. 
But a name is more 
than a stone can keep. 

VI. THE GODS AND THE NAME

And the soul you judged—it was not yours to weigh. 
The name you handled was not yours to say. 
The love you shamed was a love I knew. 
You were not in the room. It was not about you. 

I called to the Gods—the many, the old— 
with no fine offering, silver, or gold. 
I called with the name that I’d nearly lost. 
I called without asking what an answer would cost. 

I will not tell you what answered me. 
Some things are not for the court to see. 
Some things I kept when the rest was shown. 
Some things remain 
my own. 

And the throne is stone. 
Oh, the throne is stone. 
But it does not hold every name I’ve known. 
And the page lies white where the ink should run. 
And the Devil is waiting. 
I am not done. 

VII. THE RAM’S SILENCE

And the Ram—the Ram don’t speak. 
The Ram don’t argue. The Ram don’t seek. 
The Ram just stands by the throne of stone. 
And the Ram don’t leave the boy alone. 

And the Ram don’t say, “It’ll be okay.” 
The Ram don’t say, “There’ll come a day.” 
The Ram just stands and the Ram just stays. 
And the Ram don’t look away. 

He don’t ask pardon on anyone’s part. 
He don’t put his horns through the boy’s shut heart. 
He don’t make a lesson of what he sees. 
He stands close enough 
that their shadows meet. 

And the throne is stone. 
Oh, the throne is stone. 
But the Ram is there, and the Ram is known. 
And the Ram don’t kneel, and the Ram don’t sign. 
And the boy lets him stand 
at his side this time. 

VIII. THE BOY SPEAKS LAST

I will not forgive because you command. 
I will not put my hurt in your hand. 
I will not call what happened good. 
I will not say that you misunderstood. 

I loved a man. 
Write that down. 
I asked for shelter. 
You sent me out. 
I told you plainly. 
You turned away. 
Don’t dress it for Sunday. 
Write what I say. 

And if you must put my name in stone, 
leave room for the name that I call my own. 
Leave room for the words you would not hear. 
Leave room for the Ram 
who was standing here. 

And the Devil says, “Boy, there are terms to this.” 
And he holds out the pen in his narrow fist. 
But the boy says, “No.” 
And the bell don’t ring. 
And the court has no word 
for an unsigned thing. 

IX. NO SALE

And the pen lies dry. 
And the chair stays bare. 
And the Devil says, “Boy, 
you can’t leave it there.” 

But I leave it there. 
With the blank page open. 
With the bargain incomplete. 
With the stone beneath the chair 
and the dust beneath my feet. 

No sale for the sorrow. 
No sale for the name. 
No sale for the love 
you instructed to shame. 

And the smoke goes up, 
and it smells like hell. 
There are things I remember. 
There are things I will tell. 

And the Ram says nothing. 
But the Ram stays. 

X. THE STONE

There is a stone where a throne has been. 
There is a stone with a name cut in. 
There is a boy who has stood before both, 
with a mouth full of words 
and no wish for an oath. 

And the stone is cold. 
And the stone is red. 
And it cannot answer 
a word I’ve said. 

So leave the chair. 
Let the blank page lie. 
There is no last bargain 
for me to buy. 

And the Ram steps down 
when I step down. 
And the bell hangs still 
without a sound. 

And the throne of stone 
is a stone again. 
And I have not signed. 
And I have my name. 

For the doe-eyed boy who loved a man. 
For the ones who buried their hearts to survive. 
For the ones who cannot forgive. 
For the names that were spoken wrongly. 
For the names no stone can finish. 
For the Ram who stays. 
For the Lamb who knows. 

No sale. 
No sale. 
No sale. 

—Rev. Dustin ⚰️, from the Underneath