The filtered, the photoshopped, the contorted,
the tidy, the ironed, the all-in-a-pew with the painted on smiles:
incapable of giving life.
Show me broken like bread to feed the starving
The stretch marks of new life on a brave woman's skin
The wound that pours the blood that becomes the wine that leads us
home.
Show me despair as the wine drips from brows
onto soil
where plants flourish now
Show me agony of pain and abandonment
Show me the joy of relief on grieving woman's face
that the final word is not over, or alone, but
home.
If you want to be him like you claim
you don't hide your wounds--
You let others touch them.
So they know healing is possible.
So they know of life on the other side of death.
So they know they are not alone on their path to
home.
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