This was written yesterday in a Starbucks, so I apologize if it stinks of rough-draft mediocrity and tall-mocha-venti-frappe-lattes. (I don’t know how to order at Starbucks.)
i press my face into the earth,
i breathe the grime of sin into my nostrils,
and realize this is not about me
but the one who created the earth,
the one whose human likeness
i pushed aside and kicked and hit and gouged
in favor of idols that do not compare.
my soul a bonfire, my mouth unable
to open for emotion.
i am not the strong, tower-like woman
modernity wants me to be.
i am weak. frailty is my name.
i am dust, created from the rib
of a man equally weak and equally flawed.
i turn my heart
to the only flawless man:
his divinity walked the earth,
his humility hangs my head,
drags my hair on the floor,
multiplies questions in my mind.
how do i, how do i
care for the least of these
and not get too attached?
understand nothing and control nothing?
wait for my past to go blind
in the glare of his light
and not fly toward darkness
where all is discomfort and nothing is safe?
i turn my wrist
for him to lift
and release my fingers
from around my failings.
heartbroken, i crawl into brilliance,
breathe truth into my lungs,
and attempt to remove the thorn.