LENTEN BLUES, ALL GOOD INTENTIONS

Photo by Jessica Mangano on Unsplash.

Some mornings, I cannot bear the shrouds,

gritting my teeth in the pews to keep from barreling down

the aisle and freeing your cross from its mantle myself–

I ask the priest, doesn’t it break your heart?

the organist, the congregation, how can you stand it?

Mantle in hand and I am missing the point. Triteness aside,

I find myself blue,

not purple.

That’s my shame, please don’t take that from me,

I fear that my burdens would break you–

and Easter is approaching. I have been hungry,

I have been remorseful–I have been

holding afterthoughts of joy bundled up in my arms for weeks,

waiting to feast. I bite my tongue.

What to say of violence? Shall I speak?

Shall I preach? How many words would spill forth

before they dragged me from the pulpit? And if I was

holding on with such fervor that splinters and

capillaries could not be disentangled–what then?

What could I say about the violence? The liturgies lead me,

I followed the Lamb to the slaughter and as I still

hold the knife, you speak to me of grace?–Paschal candle on the horizon

and as the Son rises I am all again lost in innumerable mirages,

tricks of your light against the atmosphere and it seems

to stretch far, far above the skyline

You speak of grace and I am inconsolable–

and I defer to you because you are.

(It’s only that I miss you, you have hidden your face from me,

and in a grand continuation of tradition I am composing Psalms to you)

Beginning and end–my Love–my Light–

The clocks run forward, springs uncoil and ricochet in their cages

as I draw nearer to the cross. It’s all at once when

I lay down at your feet–Time falters in your presence,

Lord, I want all of you all the time, even as

I am holding you in Bethlehem and you are

holding me

holding you

Still my blindness, my weakness, I reach for you nonetheless

Caution, a white flag in the wind,

I climb the cross to be near to you–and when I

was a child, I waited until my parents had left the house

to climb the sycamore tree in our backyard

I waited in the topmost boughs until they came home

I was afraid of how high my arrogance had carried me.

I am afraid now, I am thirsty and lonely

I drink your sweat, your blood, I find it sweet

I let go and fall, again, at your feet.

I climb the altar to be near to you,

between your body, your blood, I find my rest–

Father, would you just pretend that I’m not here? You’ll barely notice me,

I can be so quiet, I can, I can, I can

I need more of you, God,

not more than you could offer me,

It’s me, between the splinters,

your shroud wound so tightly around my wrists,

my fits of passion, refusals upon refusals before I say yes, God, take all of me,

I cannot hold all that I want–I could not bear it and

my desire is no less for that.