Hidden in Windowless Rooms
(“However, if it’s from God, you won’t be
able to stop them. You may even discover that you’re fighting against God.”
Acts 5:38)
Hidden in windowless rooms
awaiting our number to come up,
we feel the clouds close in on us,
we feel the breath of those who shoot
opinions
like dragons full of fire.
We were well-respected, weren’t we?
We’ve owned our stories and told the new one.
Have we threatened the few at the
peak of the pyramid
who send down their edicts like
gods on fire?
We carry no arms,
we do not stockpile caches of weapons.
We walk barefoot, our feet are calloused.
We walk barefoot, our hearts are tender.
Don’t misunderstand. Some of our stories got
the best of us. Some of our history divested us
of any hope to ascend the temple steps that
ripped our unshod feet. We knew how we looked
in the campfires of deceit.
But we are a band bound tight by our
miscomprehensions,
we sing in our cells, we pray on the floor. We remember hymns
at midnight while
the rulers knock to find what we are praying for.
I offer my plate, complete with undercooked meat;
I offer my cup with dust napping on top.
The bread is still warm, the crust crisp from the
oven of stone.
The wine is simple. The dialogue drops tears,
one, two, or three,
onto the servings we share when we gather here.
We walk barefoot with our leftover loaves,
we invite more beggars like us to
share our discomfort with wrought-iron fences
and walk the fields where conversation is as
filling as the meals we remember.
