Dust Finger
Hate of him,
We have set the trap,
The law, the bait,
The manipulation.
And then
the teacher
Steps through, past
into the circle
breaking, pausing the moment.
He kneels,
touches her shoulder
Somehow intimate,
Bringing the anger
to our minds again.
He looks up
at us, unnerving
in a silence that appears.
Paused, we see our faces
reflected,
Young, smooth,
older, stained, creased.
He crouches
writes in the dust,
Edits of life
dust to creation
dust to dust
soul stick sentences
swirl in the seen
and unseen words.
"If you,"
the teacher speaks;
quiet echoing depths,
"Are without sin, throw the first stone."
The speaker looks
at us
as the story
our lives, his life, her life
are connected, unravelled,
and tightened in our souls,
Our collective soul,
Opening past and present,
Time held in heartbeats.
And we leave
one by one
Eldest to youngest,
with our shame,
our pain,
Not healed,
but exposed
Not quite yet
honest enough
to see all of our story,
But changed,
Opened?
Questioning.
We have set the trap,
The law, the bait,
The manipulation.
And then
the teacher
Steps through, past
into the circle
breaking, pausing the moment.
He kneels,
touches her shoulder
Somehow intimate,
Bringing the anger
to our minds again.
He looks up
at us, unnerving
in a silence that appears.
Paused, we see our faces
reflected,
Young, smooth,
older, stained, creased.
He crouches
writes in the dust,
Edits of life
dust to creation
dust to dust
soul stick sentences
swirl in the seen
and unseen words.
"If you,"
the teacher speaks;
quiet echoing depths,
"Are without sin, throw the first stone."
The speaker looks
at us
as the story
our lives, his life, her life
are connected, unravelled,
and tightened in our souls,
Our collective soul,
Opening past and present,
Time held in heartbeats.
And we leave
one by one
Eldest to youngest,
with our shame,
our pain,
Not healed,
but exposed
Not quite yet
honest enough
to see all of our story,
But changed,
Opened?
Questioning.
