to feel oneself abandoned
by the human race.
This crisis is not in the streets,
where twin daggers of hatred and despair
before a body ever hits the ground.
Crisis is in our hearts
each blooded muscle seen
by the holy eyes of God,
first with love, then with untainted justice.*
To be mourned is the heart that has so swelled with fear,
then hatred; another who so fears judgement
that neither can beat in rhythm with their Creator,
synchronized…in the brother/sister-hood of humankind
by the recurring image (image) ((image)), of God.
What do I know—of fear?
That is part of the problem.
If I am uncommonly awake with it now,
may its shallow gasp turn to vigil;
keeping watch, prayer-like
over others like me, if only in that they, too, bear the image of God.
Prayer-like, because my prayer alone, is not big enough for this;
must be joined by other choirs.
Fellowed, not by default
but by inventive grace
that keeps one on her knees
patellae buried into soil rich and deep
where mighty oaks might grow.
Once there invaded
the poisonous oppressions of sin,**
but I have seen a flower—
sprout and flourish
against a broken bed of shattered rock.
My bent frame
just that far. ***
* Php 1:1-7
** Isaiah 61
***Isaiah 58: 6-12