You see the person you loved. . .
The one that loved you back.
They’ve quoted the same book and sat in the same pew.
You know– the good seats.
The ones up close where the “important” people sit.
They smile a plastic drawn on mess as you pass by.
No whispered hellos.
You know there is still love there along with the broken pieces.
What did you say when you caught your “Friends” stealing a piece of your pie?
The one you baked to a golden brown.
Sugar egg washed face.
They lie, as they wipe the filling from their mouth.
Broken words sent with arrows piercing souls or is it reversed?
Is it because one of you is so smart? Smarter than the other.
I think not.
One of you knows the answers to life?
Have you figured out how one should act at a marriage?
They all laughed at you when you said the earth was round.
You never laughed at them.
The Father pointed out that you did, and you washed more egg off your face.
They said you’d fall off the earth and lose your crown.
You lost that years ago.
A broken Tierra tilted sideways.
They whispered about you then too.
Only they looked different.
Younger, blunter, but not as cruel.
They said you were different, strange. . .
The Sun said that he knew what was in man and so he didn’t follow them.
Herod came out to see a miracle, but my Father’s Son wouldn’t tap dance for him, so they put him in a royal robe and threw pieces of hate, mockery, and even their spit.
He created their spit– used it once to heal blind eyes.
He mixed the earth he created them with into the substance.
OH, THE PRIDE of man.
Run and get your state ticket to the fair, she said.
But I’m going to pick some blackberries and heat up the oven again.
I think I’ll kick up my feet and open my mouth wide–fill it with a cobbler.
A blackberry pie.
Scrape off the sugar washed face and fold up the sun.
The earth’s too round for me to run.
Too flat for me to spin.
We all sin.
We all fall short.
There are no perfect men at the election booth.
Even the Son said, “Why do you call me good?”
He has taken off my soiled robes and given me a robe of Righteousness.
I straighten my crown and cleaned my teeth of all the blackberry seeds.
I strap on my boots and pull up my pants.
I walk out to the garden and eye the tares among the wheat.
“Let them grow,” He said.
Walk among the living.
Let the dead bury the dead.
I walk into the kitchen, and I stick two fingers inside the jar scraping the side and tasting the blackberry jam.
It’s sticky sweet.