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.

Mother Wings

Mother Wings

(“Jerusalem, Jerusalem! You kill the prophets. You kill with stones those men that God has sent you. Many times I wanted to help your people. I wanted to gather them together as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings. But you did not let me.” Luke 13:34)

I am willing,
I am ready,
I need healing,
I need hiding under
the mother wings of God.

When the mask of pain hatbands my forehead,
when icepicks stab my temples,
when every atom in my brain is unrestrained
and knocks against my cranium faster than the
clicking of cicadas,

I need a mother’s hand upon my brow.

I am fading,
I am waiting,
I need breathing,
I need bread and water
made my mother’s hands.

When the day escapes on my bed of pain,
when music shoots my thoughts inflamed,
when every friendship in my arc is unlisted
and no one knocks on my door, though I’ve insisted
I’m not strong enough alone,

I need a mother’s voice whispered in my ear.

The pain blurs everything; these words, the reading,
the vibrations of joy, the location of comrades,
until, though one or two occupy the square footage,
the world is a void filled only with the knife-crease splitting
my head.

I am stating,
I am crying,
I quit breathing,
I need prayer and medicine
made by a best friend’s hands.

I don’t care if they are feathers, or hairnets, or horsetails, or fingernails,
or silk, or satin, or gingham, or the Mass in latin or lingua franca.

Whether you speak or do not speak,

I need a Mother’s care when the world has been invaded by
avoidance and fiery pain.

Pale Dots on an Inky Sky

Pale Dots on an Inky Sky

(“Because you are sons, God has sent forth the Spirit of His Son into our hearts, crying, 'Abba! Father!'” Galatians 4:6)

I did not pick up this sword on my own,
it was placed there, in my arms, by those (though planning no harm)
who designed their plan of war and placed me in position.

Let me rephrase that: perhaps I did raise the sword, but it
was not for the enemy they chose. They recited my duty,
verse by verse, and expected a fiery spectacle with their
enemies dying at my feet.

Please do not blame them; it is the only warfare they know.
Please do not mistake me as one of their own. I belong,
it is true,
to the same one they name. And, without comment about
whose tent they inhabit, I have found the Name warmer
than the fires of Big Guns ordered by General or Admiral.

I wield it wisely, or I do not wield it at all. I have heard
the call, once so far away I wished to hush the breeze to hear it.
Like a pale dot on the inky sky, barely perceptible, yet I knew,
up close it would fill my purview many worlds over. I have
heard
the call. Within this time. And it obscures every design and order
I thought I was under. Stronger, fiercer, the volcano's exclamation;
and yet: Softer, familiar, the dove's invitation.

One was the broken fissure, having blown its top,
the other is volcano fire, the power no one can stop.
One was human mapping the divine,
the other, the Father fully safe, never benign.

My hand grips the sword, my heart gripped by my Father's words,
and I swing, oh so very rarely, only to free the prisoners, cutting
through their chains,
denouncing all names but the One Name who is Abba to
all who will believe.