20180929.0430

Her, I believe,
And her,
And her, as well,
Because I have been gripped by Stupid God,
Hand working up and down,
And by its pumping pulling out
What I have been taught is the end
To which I am made.

I did not say my teachers were good.

But I know that in being handled so,
I have been directed strangely,
And I have looked beside me more than once
To see other hands working
Pumping and pulling and producing
As crusting stains upon the floor
What otherwise might be directed
To fuller and more wholesome pleasures
That others might also enjoy.

But they are not,
Not often enough,
And the stains left behind
Are too often indelible.
A rug might cover them,
Perhaps a tattered orange one,
But they remain in place,
And likely cannot be cleaned.

And for my part in making such stains,
In consenting to having such hands working on me as I have had
And working with them, in turn,
I apologize.

Such words are feeble, indeed.
I do not expect forgiveness,
But I know that I’ve done wrong,
And that many others have does not excuse me.

It does tell me, though,
That I should believe her,
And her,
And also her,
And I do.