Clothes.

I stand before you.
My clothes are filthy;
grimy, caked with mud.

I stare at your eyes
your gaze burns;
I turn away.

You approach me,
swiftly, your left foot
then your right.

You are in front of me,
I feel you,
though my eyes are now closed.

I feel your hands
brush my hair
from my face.

Don't do that
don't look at my face
I cry.


You are so gentle,
and you stop
until I open my eyes.

Your face is so near
that the heat
flushes my cheeks.

I look into your eyes
and you wipe the tears
from mine with your thumb.
 
Your hand hovers over me;
your fingers remove my
mud-stained clothing.

My garments fall to the ground,
pooled at my feet.
I look down, ashamed.

You bring my chin up
so I meet your gaze.
My shame is diminished.

You bring me to a mirror
and I look at my flesh,
ivory; clean.

My shoulders rise
as I see I am glowing.
I am new.

I look back for my clothes,
the stench of my old skin,
but they are gone.

A cry.

When will it end?
Oh dear God when will it end?
This horror the pain
the massacre.

Your children, God,
your children
are being slaughtered.
When will it end?

Your kingdom come, God.
Your will be done, God.
On our broken earth
as it is in your heaven.

God make it end.
Our guns cannot make it end.
Our words cannot make it end.
Our governments
cannot
make
it
end.

Let it be finished God.
For thine is the kingdom
and the power
and the glory
forever.

Amen.

Context.

It starts with normalcy.
The dry dullness
that is only satisfying
because it is
safe.

Somewhere along the line
the balance is
snapped.
 Like a stress-fracture;
unnoticed.