Fiery Are the Folded Hands

 

Fiery Are the Folded Hands

(“So Jesus took the loaves, gave thanks and gave them to the people sitting down, and then did the same with the fish, as much as they wanted.” John 6:11)

I don’t know why they ever lied to me,
somewhere tonight they wish they had told me the truth.
I don’t know why they ever kept me from their table,
somewhere tonight they are scraping the extra into the garbage.

Some lives are so shrunken they actually live on
less. Food is sparce, space is frugal, friends are the
ants you try to keep from your dropped crumbs on the floor.

Unless you find someone to hold your diminished life
and not be afraid of its hollow touch, you may end up
just like the rest of us.

I don’t know why I every lied to them,
somewhere tonight they wish I had told them the truth.
I don’t know why I ever kept them from the table,
somewhere tonight I have ordered extra guacamole.

Light is the touch, fiery are the folded hands that hold
my bread
in thanks for the seed, the grain, the miller and the baker,
and for the One who invented seeds and told them to teach
us of abundance when our love is too small,
and our vision too narrow,
and our prayers are checkmarks on a list or
a social network status.

Most days I would take a hug with skin
than the promise of prayer from one I think
would pray anyway.

Having been held in thankful hands by the Master,
you could be loaves and fish to me if only
you would wrap your arms around my neck,
hold my hand for more than a second,
look in my eyes with tears held back
and feed my emptiness the way a mother
brushes back her firstborn’s hair.