This poem sits somewhere at the intersection of Jesus’ crucifixion on Good Friday, and George Floyd’s murder at the hands of Derek Chauvin, and the reflective wilderness-themed space currently set up in the sanctuary at my church.
Place of Manna, Place of Silence Wilderness spaces forlorn places take a rock and toss it in the river plop and now it’s gone. Life is that short. Some have no shame. And some are murdered by the state in broad daylight with everybody watching. Many want to help but are not able. And some double down on their excuses for the inexcusable while others double over in their pain. And the “if only”s are too much. How could they not be? Questions at the cross unanswered pour like blood like water from the sides we hardly dare to show they’ve been so wounded. Sound the breath the silence. Did you want your death to be an object of reflection subject of our art subject to our wounded imaginations? And which parts of all that honor you? So many questions. Bring them. And so many limitations. Bring them here. This is the place this is the site where what has gone to waste may someday sigh and struggle shivering with signs of life. This is the time of tombs of spacious grasping gasping yawns of trauma. This, the place of manna daily not too much. And though I hunger for a feast tonight I’ll settle for the knowing gnawing through my soul that you were not alone and so it's possible neither am I. So see the river in the distance wilderness so stop and listen stay a while let it flow for now away.