I hope to avoid your
judgment
though I acknowledge your
right to do so.
Judge me, I mean.
Take whatever instrument is
at hand
and drive out everything I
have coveted
with the wrong intention,
everything
I’m willing to sell for less
than its worth,
everything that demands to
be worshipped.
Then let me rest.
This cleansing
is so much more work than I
expected.
If I only knew how to
surrender.
Instead, my hands are dry
and cracked,
sweat stings my shuttered
eyes,
my muscles ache and stiffen.
It is morning or it is
evening
and I sit at the table
writing to you.
It is the only way I know
to measure my voice against
all the shouting.
On the table, a bowl of figs,
a glass of wine, sheaves of
paper,
bread. Meager fare, I admit,
but what can I do?
It’s
all I can offer at these wages.
