It always comes to this.
Crying at midnight,
And banging on one another’s doors.
Repenting,
Begging for love.
And then it’s time for laundry.
Way beyond us,
The boulder is rolled back,
And the tomb on the hillside empty.
Tallying,
Tit for tat,
I can’t tell if I’m the victim
Or the thief.
Can’t see enough to let it go.
Two dogs tearing apart this
Worthless piece of meat.
Regret that lingers in the joints
Of crouched haunches,
Gifts that spring
Back quickly in retaliation,
The ones we give and take
And call love.
Making sacrifices at all the wrong times,
We are still searching for feet that lead
Down the one true road to Calvary,
Wondering which thief
Will be forgiven.
Tallow burned down to the quick,
I was still holding the flame
In my hand.
Went out to meet the night
With that strange light.
All the horses had crossed
The finish-line at once,
From Greece to Pakistan.
Saying the same things
In different tongues.
Linked together like boxcars,
Bumping each other,
Connecting.
I had always been carrying them,
the angels,
The times the talons were not
Growing from my feet.
And when I got that far,
I said, this is far enough
To push it farther.
This is close to
All the way.
Boxcar doors flying open
All at once along
the Jordan River.
Now the fire’s out,
The engine dead,
No more stolen, borrowed fire.
It’s time to cut
Limb from limb.
I trudge along
Dead tracks,
Fueling now with flesh
And blood and bone
Trying to transform myself
Into a pillar of fire.
© 1974 - 2020 Sally Mansfield Abbott