washing

we sat at the table,
talked about bread
and bodies, blood
and wine. who gives
and who takes?
 
here we are,
broken for each
other. in turn
invited to the table.
 
you knelt before us,
took our feet
in your hands,
gently washed them,
the room silent
but for the water
sloshing and
dripping.
 
did we sing? weep?
the air was filled
with humility
and shame, which
are not the same.
 
whose secret
was revealed?
why this grace?
did we even
finish our meal?
 
i don’t remember.
i only know that
my belly was full,
my heart heavy,
my feet clean.

burials

first, they anoint you.
the smell fills the room.
this gift’s worth
every word ever written
about it. we compare
our sacrifices,
and they don’t compare.
 
there is always someone
who loves you more.
there is always someone
more jealous than you.
this is a kind of betrayal,
this always wanting more.
 
your desire makes you
too easily bought.
that, too, is written down.

fuel

and then there were ten.
we were all waiting.
you took so long—
so very, very long.
we became bored,
distracted. we lost
time, but found our
selves in our bodies,
and lost ourselves
in our bodies’
turning.
              we burned
for you and emptied
ourselves, grew tired
of all our wanting.
and fell asleep.
 
for you’ve taken
so long. i’ve tried
to be ready
in and out of season.
there are rumours
of wars and rumours
of a feast. where
is the door? will
you let me in
now that it is late?

figs

i have often hungered
for nothing, and often
been left hungry.
my desire is always
a reaching thing,
chasing after shadows,
seeking the horizon;
too often cursing
what i find wanting.
i should care less—
but i want my mouth
filled with sweet things.
what satisfies one day
doesn’t always another.
we keep moving,
looking for answers
for all our longing.
we cross streams,
explore the high trails.
there are mountains.
we will wear them
down with our walking.

palm sunday 2022

there should be shouts
of joy. hosannas
filling the sky.
my voice should join
the chorus,
wave the branches:
palm, olive, willow, yew.
 
but i have only anger.
yes, there have been injustices,
abandonments, broken
promises. the ones i love
are still the ones i love
regardless. the distance
only grows larger
between my righteousness
and my failure. still,
we choose to gather.
we try to find the words.
 
so now let the stones
cry out. let me sit
in the streets weeping.
tell me how time is precious,
how to find a home
in which to pray.
let us chase out
the moneychangers,
the sellers of doves
together.