January 31, 2009

Romans 9

Dirt, ribs, and breath;
life rises with you.
Descendants with wind cracked skin,

barren as a charred pot,
burning between heifers, goats, and
rams. Got caught in the thistles,

yet as struggle became your name
the invisible hand rose between
death and life, slave and free.

The drops of the sacrificial lamb
are dark pockets in Egyptian sand,
hot on your bare feet as you ran

between the reeds; dried, caked
and unleavened dust on your raw heels.
But bronzed chariots, a thousand harlots,

and the amusement of wealth lay in languid wait.
On your backs, sang songs of palms and fawns
then rolled over to another love.

Unspoken of, insidious, dark walls tall
like an exotic women with intimidating eyes.
Bowing low, weeping at riversides

with the blades wide between harps
and joyful plucking hands.
Amends, amends and hope flows

like the Jordan and you came up glistening
in the baptismal bliss of repentance.
What you will still miss despite knowledge,

light, Moses and Elijah, outwardly contrite
but, as iron holds, you are convinced of
your own right, convinced you own the way;

instead it hangs between heaven and earth;
even the sky must look away.