Leviticus 8

Uncle Moses, why

are my brothers dragged dead

outside the camp,

and why

are the rest of us dripping

with blood?

This headband is tight,

and the drips from the lobe

of my right ear are 

distracting, like the rain

off the roof of my tent when

I'm wrestling uneasily

with sleep.

Uncle Moses, where

is the Compassionate? The Slow-

to-Anger One who hid you

within fire-formed rocks,

brought you into His presence and

let you live? 

Fiery incense and disobedience?

Where is Maintaining Love?

We are less

than thousands, we a weeping

and bloody family before Him.

Uncle Moses, what of me? I am

short in my robes, clumsy, bound

to tangle in these folds, knock into 

the altar. My chin barely has enough hair

to be singed. Forgive

the wicked questions, Uncle Moses,

but the fear...

Leviticus 6

The altar smolders, its flames
are dying. On the brink of sleep,
my eyes blink with smoke
and the ash settles

on my dewy forearms like the manna,
falling silently,
covering the camp each morning.
I rise to change

into linen rags, stained
from these midnights of clearing.
The bronze is searing, charred
bits of goat and ram, scattered sacrifices

are swept aside.
Always, the tremble of my shoulder,
the blackened breath caught on my lips;
always, the burden of fear.

It must keep burning.
These sins, birds torn at the wing,
bulls skinned and washed,
guilt and it's ever gripping hand;

forgiveness must continue its crackle,
in all its intensity it must always
ignite the offerings and
turn sin into dust.

And I, it seems,
must always clean this up.

Leviticus 4

Covered with ash,

guilt stings the dark

corners of my eyes, tears

slide across the lower

lid, but never fall. My scarred

hands, from offering your sin

forgiving sacrifices, attacked

by pigeons whose heads I removed

with swift twist of terrible 

wrist. My scarred hands, stained

fingers, dipped again and again in blood,

flung again and again against His sharp

and demanding presence. I carry 

you all on my shoulders, back across this hot

desert camp. My strength sapped,

my hands are red,

my feet blistered,

our sins forgiven.